


Act of Love

by deklava



Series: Against All Odds- a Mystrade Saga [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Character Death Fix, Grief/Mourning, Illnesses, M/M, Male Friendship, Oral Sex, Suicide Attempt, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:10:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 29,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deklava/pseuds/deklava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grieving over Sherlock's death at Reichenbach, Mycroft tries to kill himself. The botched attempt damages his heart and leaves him with two weeks to live. He never expected Gregory Lestrade to come along.</p>
<p>NOTE: This story is 'Post Reichenbach', but was originally written before Season 2 aired, so Sherlock 'dies' at Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland, as per the ACD version.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft surveyed his living room. Everything was in place. It was time.

Half an hour ago, he had swallowed the antiemetic drug to ensure that his stomach wouldn't turn traitor. Although he rarely failed at anything, Mycroft refused to take any chances. Not with this.

The lights were dimmed. The CD player in the massive entertainment system was on auto mode, playing an endless and soft stream of classical music. A photo album (Mycroft Holmes had always preferred gazing at a book of memories to browsing Facebook galleries) sat on the coffee table, next to the crystal glass of Concord grape juice and paper cup containing four pills.

His Blackberry buzzed just as he was about to shut it off for the last time. It was Anthea. He debated ignoring the message, but finally sighed and opened it. Anthea had been too important to him over the years for him to do this without leaving her something.

 _Sir._ _Reminding_ _you_ _about_ _your_ _9:00_ _a.m._ _chiropractor_ _appointment_ _tomorrow._ _Will_ _come_ _around_ _with_ _the_ _car_ _at_ _8:45._ _A._

He smiled sadly as he typed his response.

_Fine,_ _my_ _dear._ _Thank_ _you._ _You_ _are_ _the_ _finest_ _assistant_ _I_ _could_ _ever_ _have_ _had._ _MH._

After pressing the 'SEND' key, he held down the phone's power button until it flickered and went silent forever.

Like he soon would.

Mycroft walked over to the ornate Louis XIV desk by the window, where his laptop waited to play its role in his plan's conclusion. He sat down, accessed his e-mail program, and composed a message to John Watson. He had spent so much time mentally rehearsing what he wanted to say that his fingers flew over the keys and he was done in less than a minute.

_Dear John,_

_I've always been able to deal with tragedy, and even cause it when a greater good was at stake. Situational ethics, my instructors at MI6 once described it. Sometimes dozens have to die so that thousands may live. I believed in the concept of acceptable casualties. But last year a single death changed that._

_When Sherlock died at Reichenbach, I told myself that I shouldn't be selfish, that his sacrifice ended James Moriarty's sadistic games forever. But ideas and emotions are frequently at odds, and while I praise my brother's nobility, I have never stopped missing him._

_John, my life has been one long grieving session since the funeral. I see my brother everywhere. Without him, I'm like a glass with a crack in it. No matter how much goes in- joy, intrigue, hope- it eventually trickles out._

_And the voices! The ones that cry out for help, for justice. You know that since Sherlock's death, Scotland Yard has frequently contacted me for assistance with baffling cases. At first I was happy to help, despite the severe demands on my time. But I have to face the truth that these investigations have undone me. Children murdered by their parents before they had a chance at life, people slaughtered because they loved too much or not enough or just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why?_

_Don't get me wrong- I always knew that such horrors take place, and I've killed hostile parties in the same of national security. But senseless murder- I can't deal with it like Sherlock did. He always said he had no heart, which wasn't exactly true. He definitely had a heart, John, and it belonged to you. But he was able to summon the necessary detachment to take the worst crimes and turn them into solvable puzzles. I can't. When Mr. Dimmock from Scotland Yard came to my office this morning with that Cressida Road Case- the one involving those uni students- I couldn't stop thinking about what their final moments must have been like._

_I believe that life itself is like a marriage. When the joy is gone, the sensible thing to do is get out before your hell becomes complete._

_By the time you get this e-mail, I will be gone, and hopefully reunited with my brother and our parents. You and I were such a comfort to each other after Sherlock left us, John, and I didn't want to leave you like this without helping you to understand why._

_Mycroft_

He accessed his e-mail settings and arranged for the message to be sent in an hour. Then he inhaled deeply, closed the laptop down, and went over to the sofa.

The album on the coffee table was open to the last photos that had ever been taken of Sherlock. (Officially, that was. His younger brother had rarely been out of Mycroft's surveillance range.) They were at their cousin Mina's wedding in Sussex. Sherlock had been so bored and aggravated at the social niceties he'd been forced into that he slipped laxatives into the chocolate mousse and then filled all the toilets with tropical fish from the inn's display tank. Everyone in the photos looked uncomfortable except for Sherlock, who was grinning like he'd just found a head in his bar fridge.

Mycroft sighed as he remembered how he'd chased his brother halfway across the inn grounds after the prank was discovered, screaming, "I'm going to kill you!" And a month later, James Moriarty had done just that. Mycroft regretted that the snide villain had died with his victim; killing the man slowly and creatively would have been a bright spot in the dark days that followed.

He peeled back the protective covering on one of the pages, and took out the photo that was his favorite. Sherlock stood with John in front of the lobby fireplace, looking remote yet mischievous in his rented tuxedo. His mouth wore a disapproving frown, but his pale eyes gleamed: Mycroft deduced that this must have been the point when the fate of the tropical fish was sealed. The image was quintessentially Sherlock- stiff and uncomfortable in the grasp of conventional society, and privately planning revenge.

He propped the photo against the Ming vase on the coffee table and gazed at it for several minutes. Then, without tearing his eyes away from those of his brother, he lifted the paper cup, tipped the barbiturates into the glass of juice, and swallowed it all down in one smooth, final movement.

It was done. Mycroft closed his mind to fear, regret, or guilt, and reclined against the sofa cushions, still keeping eye contact with the photo and resolving not to look away until his drug-thickened lids closed forever.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed before a loud knocking sounded on the door. Mycroft's chin had been descending gradually toward his chest and his ears buzzed faintly. With a start he realized that his eyes had been sliding shut.

"Mr. Holmes? It's Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. Please open the door now."

Mycroft rolled onto his side, flinching as the movement intensified the humming in his ears and made his stomach churn. He took deep, ragged breaths to get the nausea under control. This Detective Inspector Lestrade would eventually go away if he got no response, and Mycroft just wanted to get on with his death.

"Mr. Holmes?" Another knock. "Are you in there?"

_Yes,_ _but_ _not_ _for_ _much_ _longer._

Another voice joined Lestrade's.

"Sir? It's Anthea. Please, Mr. Holmes, your text worried me."

Seconds later, Mycroft heard the click of her key in his front door. His thoughts had already slowed down, but he was desperate to get off of the sofa and into his bedroom about nine feet away. He could lock the door –Anthea didn't have that key, and by the time they broke through the thick oak paneling, there'd be nothing left of him to save.

Mycroft lurched to his feet, groaning as the room spun on its axis, and stumbled toward the bedroom. He had almost made it when footsteps rushed at him from behind and strong hands spun him around. He hissed- a wild sound that startled a gasp out of Anthea, who hovered behind the sofa. Her distress registered only faintly with Mycroft- his wavering vision was focused on the man who held him firmly by the arms.

Detective Inspector Lestrade had to be going on fifty. His close-cropped hair was silver and his open jacket revealed a softening middle, but his speed, strength, and vigour were more typical of a much younger man. A still-handsome face was drawn into a confused and worried frown.

"Mr. Holmes? What's the matter with you?"

Mycroft tried to speak, but his jaw had gone slack. He wavered on loosening legs: only Lestrade's grip kept him from pitching forward.

"Oh, dear God!" Anthea choked. "I think he's taken something."

She had obviously seen the paper cup, drained juice glass, and Sherlock's photo, and drawn the correct, damning conclusion.

"Did you?" Lestrade shook him gently. "Nod if the answer's yes."

Mycroft felt darkness slide gently over his vision. His knees buckled and he fell against the policeman's solid chest. The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was Lestrade's frantic order to "Call 999."

 _Too_ _late_ , Mycroft thought. _Sherlock,_ _I_ _'_ _m_ _coming_ _home..._


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft hurt all over. That baffled him- wasn't death supposed to be the cessation of all earthly pain?

He coughed, only to find that a tube had been lodged in his throat. The foreign sensation made him choke and when his head turned, a second tube jostled in his nostril. He tried to pull the plastic intruders out, and discovered that both his wrists were immobilised.

His eyes shot open. He was in a dim white room, with his naked body covered by a sheet and secured to a hospital bed via padded leather straps. Tubes and needles extended from his arms. Panic broke through his lethargy and he struggled. From somewhere to his left, a machine started beeping wildly.

The door opened and a nurse hurried in. Right behind her were John Watson and DI Lestrade.

John's eyes were rimmed heavily with red, as if he'd been weeping. "He's awake. Oh, thank God."

Mycroft made a gurgling noise and thrashed his head back and forth on the pillow. He felt desperate, angry, and cheated. Goddamn Anthea and this Lestrade! His hands curled into fists and he glared at the inspector with as much fury as he could muster. He tried to curse, but his throat contracted around the tube and he choked again.

"Mycroft, please stop," John begged. "For God's sake."

The doctor's obvious agony softened Mycroft's anger. He turned his face toward John, whose face was awash with a new flood of tears.

"How could you do this?" John whispered. "I got your e-mail and I understand your pain, but how could you possibly have thought that killing yourself was the answer? Did it never occur to you what this would do to me? You're more like family to me than my own bloody sister, Goddamn it, and you were all set to leave me like Sherlock did!"

Mycroft's eyes stung. He wished that his mouth was free to tell the shorter man that it wasn't about him. John was strong, and would get over both Holmes brothers in time, although the memory of their loss would always hurt. As he battled back tears of his own, Mycroft also felt his sore chest swell with rejuvenated anger. Who was John Watson to deny him the right to decide when he'd had enough? He was not a fucking security blanket, someone to keep alive and close by because he was Sherlock's brother and a living connection to a beloved ghost.

The nurse's gloved hand on his right arm derailed his thoughts. Seeing the syringe she held, he gave a strangled bellow and tried to launch his shoulders off the bed. John leaned over and forced him back down, holding him immobile so that the sedative could be injected.

When the needle pierced his skin he clenched his fists, and was startled to feel warm fingers covering his left hand. He stared in that direction, and saw Detective Inspector Lestrade standing there, gazing down at him with real compassion. Lestrade's dark eyes met Mycroft's pale ones, and maintained the contact until Mycroft surrendered to darkness yet again.

******

When Mycroft awoke again, the tubes were gone, thank God, although he could feel the light sting of an IV needle in his left hand. He shifted on the mattress, and realized that his limbs were no longer strapped down. Curious as well as relieved, he opened his eyes and looked around.

He was in a different room, and one that he recognized with a start: his old bedroom in the family country house in Yorkshire Dales. Years had passed since his last visit; his busy schedule and Sherlock's lack of interest had practically turned the manor into a retirement residence for long-time staff.

How had he gotten here?

And why was Detective Inspector Lestrade sitting in a chair next to his bed, reading the newspaper and pausing every few minutes to rub tired eyes?

Mycroft moved again under the duvet, drawing Lestrade's attention away from the Times. "Mr. Holmes!" he said with a relief that was almost palpable. "You're awake."

He sounded as if he cared in some way that wasn't purely professional. Mycroft dismissed the idea as impossible and tried to sit up. When the resulting dizziness made him wince, Lestrade jumped off the chair and steadied his wobbling shoulder with one hand while reaching for more pillows with the other. He tucked them against Mycroft's back and gently re-positioned him before sitting back down.

"Thank you," Mycroft said in a voice rusted by long disuse. "For the pillow, I mean. Not for saving me. I really wish you hadn't."

"You're welcome. And I'm not sorry that your assistant called me when she got your text, Mr. Holmes. I knew your brother well. I used to be Scotland Yard's liaison with Sherlock on cases that required his abilities." Lestrade shook his head. "He's been deeply missed."

Mycroft lowered his head. So that was why Lestrade had come to his house that night. One of Anthea's many responsibilities was reviewing the CCTV surveillance tapes, and she would have come to know the handsome policeman well after years spent watching him interact with Sherlock and John at crime scenes. He had to be trustworthy and discreet, or she would never have called him.

"Is that why you're here? Miles from London?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Mycroft gestured at the room and the expansive view beyond the open window. "If you were concerned about my state upon waking up, you could have asked John to keep you informed. Since you don't know me enough to truly care, I'm going to assume that you're doing this for Sherlock."

"I owe him that much, Mr. Holmes. It's true. But that's not why I'm here." Lestrade gazed at the floor and chewed his lip. "Perhaps later we'll discuss it."

Interesting. A man without clearly discernable motives, and good-looking to boot. Under ordinary circumstances, Mycroft would have kidnapped him for a private chat in a warehouse or factory. But those methods –and desires- belonged firmly in the past. As soon as the way was clear, he would try to kill himself again.

"How long was I unconscious?"

"Nearly two weeks. You spent four days in the Intensive Care Unit at Bart's before Dr. Watson decided that you were stable enough to bring here. That was over a week ago."

Mycroft nodded slowly. John Watson's handiwork was all over this, and not just in the IV hook-up and catheter lodged in an intimate area. He did not hate hospitals as much as Sherlock had, so the good doctor needn't have worried in that respect, but there was something soothing about waking up from a living nightmare and finding yourself in a bed where you'd always been safe and yes, happy. That was John- comfort during times of crisis. Lying there, warm beneath the duvet that still bore faint scorch marks from a teenage smoking habit, Mycroft could almost forget how alone he was. The last of the Holmeses. Sherlock's guardian angel turned failed successor.

"Where is John?" he asked.

"Downstairs. I'll get him for you." Lestrade rose and turned to leave, but Mycroft reached out and touched his arm.

"One moment. Detective Inspector-"

"Gregory, please."

"Gregory. I have to admit that you've got me curious. Now that I'm awake, will you be heading back to London soon?"

For a moment, Mycroft thought that the man was going to cry. His lips trembled quickly before tightening and he inhaled deeply through his nose. When he answered, his voice was as hoarse as Mycroft's.

"No, I've taken some time off from the office. I'll be staying here until-" Lestrade stopped himself. "I'll get John," he continued in a barely-there whisper. Then he was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Moments after the door clicked shut, it opened again. An elderly man peered into the room, smiling weakly.

"Master Mycroft," he said.

Mycroft's dry throat tightened painfully under a sudden and fierce onslaught of emotion. "Parker," he whispered.

Allan Parker had been the chief butler and head of staff at the manor for as long as Mycroft could remember. Newlyweds Siger and Violet Holmes had hired him when they purchased the property, and supposedly his father had acted as chauffeur to the previous owners. As a servant Parker had been beneath Sherlock's notice, but Mycroft had always adored him: he'd spent entire family vacations sitting in the servants' kitchen with the older man, listening to stories about England's bravery during the war and great leaders like Winston Churchill. Seeing him now resurrected memories of a happier, brighter time, and he swallowed back the impulse to cry for a vanished past.

Parker opened the door wider and approached. "It's good to see you, sir. I just… wish it were under happier circumstances."

"As do I."

"Sir, I… we…" The old man bit his lip. "We were all sorry to hear about Master Sherlock. It was a terrible shock."

"Yes, it was." Mycroft lowered his eyes. "And thank you."

Before the conversation could venture into more painful territory, John and Gregory Lestrade entered the room.

John Watson looked terrible. Bruise-colored shadows underscored his eyes, his complexion was pasty, and he'd lost more weight than he could afford: a pale blue jumper that had always fitted him comfortably now hung off his shoulders. "Hey," he said. "Greg just told me you were awake. How are you feeling?"

"Horrible."

"That's to be expected." He took a penlight out of his pocket. "Look at me."

Mycroft obeyed. John flashed the light from one eye to the other before putting the device away and looking more distressed.

"Do you hurt anywhere?"

"Just my head, a bit. I feel weak more than anything else."

"But no pain in your chest?"

Mycroft frowned. "No," he said before taking a closer, more appraising look at his brother's former lover. John wasn't telling him something, and that something was deadly serious. The doctor kept licking his lips nervously and glancing everywhere but at his patient.

"John," Mycroft said.

Watson's eyes finally met his. "Yes?"

"You're trying to decide how to give me some devastating news, and I assure you that whatever it is, I can handle it. After losing Sherlock, anything fate tries to hit me with will feel like a love tap, nothing more."

"I'm not so sure, Mycroft. Maybe later today, when you're a bit stronger."

Parker shook his head and looked away. Gregory Lestrade finally burst out, "For fuck's sake, John, tell him!"

Mycroft examined John's face minutely, but could find no clues. That intrigued him: normally he could glance at a person and deduce all of their recent history from their shirt creases, tie stains, and shoe scuffs. Right now John was as inscrutable as Sherlock had been, except for the obvious emotional pain.

"If you don't, I will," Lestrade warned. "He needs to know."

Now Mycroft shifted his attention to the policeman. Again, nothing other than the fact that Gregory drank too much coffee that morning and was using a different hair product that he wasn't sure he liked yet. Were both men that good at hiding things, or had prolonged unconsciousness dulled his abilities?

"Fine." John sat on the edge of the bed. "Mycroft, during the ambulance ride to Bart's, you went into cardiac arrest, and were clinically dead upon arrival. The medication you overdosed on precipitated the crisis, but you haven't looked after yourself in awhile, and frankly, your heart seems to have been in poor shape before you did this insane thing. The A&E staff revived you, but…"

He paused. When he resumed, his voice was thick with emotion. "I'm not going to bore you with the medical particulars, but I'm afraid that the damage was irreversible."

Parker excused himself and went out into the hall.

"Irreversible." Mycroft rolled the word over his tongue like it was a new food that he wasn't sure he liked or hated. "You're saying that I'm not going to recover."

"Yes. That's what I'm saying."

Now Gregory sat on the bed too. Both men stared at him with mingled apprehension, sympathy, and in John's case, raw grief.

Mycroft forced himself to go still, so that he could accurately label the sensation now working its way through him. "I'm going to die," he said, hoping that bluntness would shock the elusive feeling out of hiding.

"That's right."

He could see that John was trying so hard to be strong, and keep his doctor persona intact for a dying man's benefit. Mycroft almost felt sorry for him. Beside him, Gregory Lestrade's face was a mask but his eyes sparkled.

"I understand John's reaction, but not yours," Mycroft said to him. "You're a policeman- you deal with death every day. If all of this is because I'm Sherlock's brother, then you really have to try not to be so sentimental. It will ruin you personally and professionally."

Lestrade recoiled. "Mr. Holmes –Mycroft- do you not understand what John is saying?"

"I understand perfectly. John, how long do I have?" Again he tried using grim language to force his own feelings into the open, whatever they really were.

John cleared his throat. "There's no way to know for certain, but I saw the results of the cardiac CT scan, and well, Mycroft, it looks bad. If you want my honest opinion, you're looking at two weeks. At the outside."

Two weeks. And with that verdict the stubborn emotion came out of hiding. Mycroft felt… _relieved_.

"That's why I had you brought here," John continued. "The specialists at Bart's were reluctant at first, but in the end, we all agreed that this was the best place for you to be."

Mycroft smiled. "I can see why Sherlock loved you so, John."

That did it. John Watson's composure crumbled. He threw shaking arms around Mycroft and sobbed heavily against his neck. The older man stroked John's heaving back and tried to hide his relief.

_Just_ _a_ _bit_ _longer,_ _Sherlock._

While John wept, Mycroft looked past him at Gregory, who was the color of morgue linen. Their eyes met and held. Then the silver-haired policeman stood up, excused himself in a barely audible voice, and ran out of the room.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft jolted awake. He sat up in bed, swearing under his breath when the IV needle shifted in his hand. He'd have to ask John to take it out- he was drinking water without complications and had even been able to take some toast and weak tea before settling in for the night.

The digital clock on the bedside table read 3:15 a.m. He'd been asleep for almost six hours. That was long enough. He pushed the covers back and swung his feet to the floor.

Mycroft loved the predawn hours, that faintly surreal time when no daylight or crowds or noisy electronics prevented deep and reflective thought. He'd attributed his professional success to his fondness for early rising. While most of London slept, he would be in his study, sipping espresso and downloading the night's reports from the various government departments. By the time bleary-eyed workers began stumbling toward the tube stations with Starbucks cups in one hand and briefcases in the other, Mycroft had already gone through hours of surveillance tapes and several megabytes of electronic files, and occasionally prevented a war or two.

Tonight was different. He had none of his usual responsibilities (nor was he remotely curious about who was handling them now). There was plenty of time for uninterrupted reflection.

He thought about his parents, and wondered if enough important things got said before age claimed them. He thought about Sherlock, whom he'd spent his life watching over with an exasperation fortified by genuine love; it wasn't until Sherlock died in Switzerland that he understood how void life was without him. Mycroft realized with a jolt that his ambition to become the most powerful man in Britain had really been fuelled by one motive- to keep his brother safe.

He thought about John Watson, a genuinely good man who was now sleeping across the hall and would soon be grieving for him. John didn't know yet that Mycroft had revised his will before the suicide attempt and left him everything except some family heirlooms that would go to Cousin Mina in Sussex. Material wealth was inadequate compensation for the serious emotional pain John was destined to suffer, but at least he could recover without the added anxiety of unpaid bills.

He also thought about Gregory Lestrade. He still didn't understand why the detective inspector was so distressed. Lestrade had not returned to the room after leaving it so abruptly, and Mycroft didn't want to press a distraught John for information. He'd broached the subject with Parker when the elderly butler helped him into pyjamas, but apparently both of them were in the dark as to Lestrade's motives.

"All I know is that Mr. Lestrade arrived with the ambulance that brought you and Dr. Watson, Sir," Parker said. "I agree that his concern is curious. But I don't think there's anything sinister behind it. He spent a lot of time at your bedside, and even helped me move you and apply ointment to your back to prevent bedsores."

Imagining the handsome detective inspector rubbing cream onto his naked back made Mycroft blush, something he rarely did. Gregory Lestrade was attractive and an enigma, two attributes that would have provoked Mycroft's interest under different circumstances. But he could not afford to think about such things any more.

Mycroft got up slowly, holding onto the bedside table for support. When his legs stopped quivering, he headed for the window, extending his arm to keep the IV needle from ripping out. The plastic tubing was long enough to let him lean against the sill and peer out into the lilac-scented night. He inhaled deeply and started to survey the huge expanse of neatly manicured lawn, but something at the pavilion caught his eye immediately.

A dancing red dot.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft froze instinctively. _Anomaly present. Determine source and threat level before making your presence known._

The tiny circle of light bobbed back and forth within the old pavilion. As he watched it, Mycroft's brain ran through a list of potential sources and their probabilities.

Fireflies? No. Anything living would have a more irregular movement pattern.

Snipers?

Mycroft's right hand, which usually carried his umbrella, twitched. He felt its loss sharply right now. True, it was merely a sword in disguise, but a weapon was a weapon. It would have made him feel formidable while he planned a counter-offensive.

He debated throwing something out the window towards the dot and seeing if gunfire resulted. The light was an odd shade of red for a sniper device –as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Mycroft thought it resembled a floating ember- but taking chances was a fool's game.

A heavy cough broke the stillness. The light paused in the pavilion's centre before descending its steps. Then Gregory Lestrade emerged from the shadows into the moonlight. He flicked the ash off of a glowing cigarette before returning it to his mouth.

The tension fled Mycroft so abruptly that he nearly toppled over. Recovering quickly, he surveyed the other man from head to toe.

Lestrade wore the same suit he'd had on that afternoon, so it wasn't likely that he'd gone to bed. He kept his head down and ignored the moonlit scenery as he paced back and forth, indicating that whatever was on his mind was denying him peace. At one point he paused and looked skyward, but his posture suggested that he was relieving sore neck muscles instead of enjoying the stars.

Mycroft seized the opportunity. After peeling the tape off his hand he pulled out the IV needle, ignoring the resulting pain, and put on the robe that hung over his bedpost. He still felt weak, but his legs supported him as he slid his feet into slippers and padded quietly out of the room. His bedroom was at the front of the house, so it did not take him long to reach the main door, unlock it, and step outside.

Lestrade didn't notice his approach until he was close enough to say softly, "Detective Inspect- I mean, Gregory."

"Jesus Christ!" The policeman dropped the cigarette and grabbed for a non-existent shoulder holster. He stared at Mycroft, breath coming out in gasps. "Christ, I thought you were a ghost."

"Not yet. Give it two weeks."

"That's not funny." Lestrade grimaced as he ground out the discarded cigarette. "How can you even joke about something like that?"

"I'm not afraid of death, Gregory. Being the – I mean, working for the British government ensured that."

"Yeah… yeah, I suppose. The police service does the same thing to you." Lestrade pulled a package of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one.

"Got another?" Mycroft asked.

Lestrade lit a second one and handed it over. Mycroft hadn't smoked in years, but he needed an icebreaker if he wanted to start solving the puzzle of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

The two men stood in the shadow of the silent pavilion, puffing on cigarettes. Then Lestrade said, "You have questions."

"Excellent deduction, Gregory. But do you have answers?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

Mycroft waited. Gregory took one more drag on the cigarette before jerking his head toward the winding driveway that led out to the main road.

"Feel up to a walk?"

"I believe so." Mycroft tightened his robe sash and followed, but a sudden head rush made him stumble and nearly drop the cigarette.

"Here." Gregory took his arm. "Let me help you."

"I'm fine," Mycroft retorted, just before his right knee gave out. Lestrade caught him around the waist.

"Like hell you are. Come here." Before the other man could protest, Gregory bent down and slid his other arm under Mycroft's knees, lifting him up. "Christ, you're light."

"Now there's something I never expected to hear again."

Lestrade carried him back toward the house. "We'll talk inside instead."

"Gregory, put me down. Please. I'm not some worn-out five-year-old or a newlywed!"

"No, you're someone who got out of bed against your doctor's orders. Now hold still."

Parker opened the door to them, looking worried.

"Master Mycroft… what's happened?"

"Nothing," Lestrade said, brushing past and continuing up the stairs. Mycroft gave the old family servant an apologetic look. When Gregory laid him on his bed, he grumbled, "If I were in my old position, I suspect this would be kidnapping or treason."

John entered the room. "What's going on? I smell something burning." Then he spotted the cigarette between Mycroft's fingers and gasped. "What the hell? You don't smoke."

"It's mine," Lestrade said quickly.

"You don't smoke either."

"Sometimes I do. Helps a man think." The policeman plucked the offending article from Mycroft's hand and took a couple of puffs before tossing it in a glass of water on the dresser.

"John, it's all fine," Mycroft said. "Gregory couldn't sleep and I'm usually up at this time anyway. I went outside sooner than I should have and he had to help me back in."

John accepted the explanation without comment, but when he saw the discarded IV needle dangling from its tube, he became angry. "Mycroft, I'm re-inserting the line, and it's going to stay in. No more of that- I mean it."

"Fine." Mycroft surprised himself at how much he sounded like Sherlock just then. John noticed it too- he paled, but said nothing more as he applied a new needle. After securing it with tape, he said wearily, "I've not been able to sleep, so might as well stay up. Coffee, anyone?"

Lestrade shook his head but Mycroft replied quickly, "Black. Two sugars."

John's eyes widened and a faint tremor crossed his lips. "Be right back," he whispered.

For 2.08 seconds Mycroft was confused. Then he remembered- he and Sherlock took their coffee the same way.

"It's all right," Lestrade said. "There will always be reminders like that. No way to avoid them."

"Gregory, you have to promise me something. I see that John cares about you a great deal. I want you to help him when I'm gone. I've ensured that he'll be well-off financially, but he'll also need-"

"Mycroft." Lestrade's voice was gentle. "You know I will. That's one of the reasons why I'm here- to get him through what lies ahead, as well as…afterward. But I'm also here for you."

"I gathered as much, and I want to know why."

"Because I know that you've never really lived, and you deserve to now."

"What?"

"We never really met before you tried to kill yourself, Mycroft, but that doesn't mean I haven't heard of you. Sherlock used to call you his 'arch enemy', said you were always spying on him and interfering in his life. He described it as meddling, but you know who does that kind of meddling, in my opinion? Older siblings who love younger ones to such an extent that their own needs and feelings are overlooked."

Mycroft couldn't speak.

"Your suicide e-mail to John revealed a lot. When Sherlock died, you lost more than a brother. You also lost your sense of self. You'd never married, you'd made no career decisions that didn't involve him in some way. You tried to cope by taking on Sherlock's role when you helped Dimmock with those cases, but like you said to John, it was too much for you. So you wondered what was left, and concluded that the answer was nothing."

Despite a gargantuan effort to hold them back, hot tears stung Mycroft's burning cheeks. "There _is_ nothing!" he hissed.

Lestrade grabbed his hand. "You're wrong, and I'm going to make you see that. You deserve to really LIVE, Mycroft, no matter how much time you have left. Two weeks, two days, whatever. I'm going to make sure that you do."

"Because you pity me? Is that it?"

"Of course not. Before I got to know you, the answer would have been that I was doing this for Sherlock. Look, Mycroft… before he and John chased Moriarty to Switzerland, Sherlock e-mailed me. He knew that he might not come back, and he was worried about you. It was as if he knew what you'd eventually do. He said that if you ever needed my help, he'd consider it a personal favor if I provided it. I tried to approach you at the funeral service, but your security was so tight and, if I may be blunt, you appeared to be on so many tablets you couldn't even stand unassisted."

"I was." Mycroft drew his knees up to his chest and wept bitterly. "Oh God, _Sherlock_. I miss him, Gregory. I think about him every minute."

"So do I. More than you can possibly imagine." Lestrade squeezed his hand. "But it's not just about a promise to a dead friend any more. I really do like you, Mycroft. At this point I'm doing this for you as much as him. That's why I was so upset yesterday. You're a good man, and you don't deserve what you're going through."

Mycroft's defences crumbled. He felt raw, lost, and vulnerable in the face of such sincere compassion. He'd always had to be the strong one, the portrait of dignity and invincibility. Now he felt like a child, and one that needed to be held. Badly.

"Gregory," he murmured against his knees, "would you please-"

Suddenly a scream erupted from downstairs.

John.


	6. Chapter 6

"What the hell!" Lestrade was at the doorway in an instant. "John?"

No answer.

"JOHN!"

Nothing.

"Stay here," Lestrade ordered before disappearing into the hallway. Mycroft obeyed for as long as it took to get out of bed, tuck the IV bag under one arm, and snatch a straight razor from the array of shaving tools on the dresser.

He found Lestrade and Parker in the kitchen, lowering John into a chair. The doctor's eyes were glassy, and he shook so badly that his teeth chattered. "He was here, I swear, right here."

"Who was, Dr. Watson?" Parker asked.

When John answered, he stared straight at Mycroft. "Sherlock."

"What are you talking about?" Lestrade touched his shoulder.

"Aren't you listening? I flipped on the dining room light and he was there. In that doorway leading to Parker's room." John tried to vault off the chair but Lestrade forced him back down.

"Dr. Watson," Parker said gently, "I was in my quarters when you cried out. If anyone had been in that doorway, I would have seen or heard them."

"John, listen to him," Gregory urged. "What you're saying is impossible. For a number of reasons."

John kept staring at Mycroft. "I fainted for a few seconds, and when I came to, he was gone. Please- go look. If he was here, _you_ would know."

Mycroft, whose long-controlled emotions were already severely undone, quivered. Gregory was right- John couldn't have seen Sherlock. It was impossible. But he had to investigate anyway. Unless fatigue had short-circuited his senses, John had seen _something_.

Still clutching the razor, Mycroft entered the dining room. He scanned it critically. The single window was bolted shut from the inside. The Moroccan rug under the silent table lay perfectly flat: anyone making a hasty exit from Parker's doorway would have scuffed or kicked up its edge. He even sniffed the air for traces of cologne, soap, sweat, or any other olfactory evidence that someone had been there, but could only detect the analgesic rub Parker had applied to his arthritic knees before retiring.

Lestrade joined him. "See anything?"

Mycroft shook his head. "No one was here. I don't see any evidence of it."

John moaned and buried his face in his hands. "I'm telling you- oh, God, I don't even know any more. He... _it_ was so damned real."

"Come on." Lestrade guided Mycroft back into the kitchen. "Let's all have coffee and get a grip on ourselves."

The three of them sat in weary silence at the kitchen counter while Parker served coffee, tea, and a light breakfast. Watching Mycroft eat some fruit and toast, John finally asked, "Are you nauseated at all?"

"No."

"I suppose the IV can come out later then. I'll just give you your medication via a daily injection."

"What for?"

John frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

Lestrade lowered his scone.

"Why am I taking any medication at all? What difference could it possibly make now?" Mycroft looked from one to the other.

"Mycroft," John said, "you're getting vasopressors to support cardiac output, and a mild sedative to keep you relatively calm, so you don't incur a stress-based heart attack. Without them..." He sighed and took another sip of coffee.

"I'd die sooner rather than later?"

"Yes."

Mycroft closed his eyes and made a decision. "I want you to stop treating me, John. Effective immediately."

Parker gasped loudly and spun away from the fridge. Lestrade looked stricken. John's face flashed from red to white and back again.

"You- you can't be serious," he stammered. "Please…don't do this to yourself… to us."

"I am serious." Mycroft pushed his chair back and moved away from the counter. "Look, I know you all care about me. John, Parker, I love you both dearly. Gregory, you are admirable, and I appreciate your dedication to my brother. But I don't want to prolong this."

Lestrade got up and blocked the entrance to the hallway. "Prolong it? Mycroft, you've only got a couple of weeks, maybe not even that." His voice wavered, but he took a deep breath and steadied it. "Why are you so determined to hurry things?"

"Because this should have been over with the first time!" Mycroft surprised himself: he'd never been one to raise his voice, even when incessantly baited and annoyed by Sherlock. He was always the proverbial iron fist in a velvet glove, unlike Sherlock, who used to yell and shoot walls until his temper subsided.

"John," Lestrade said without taking his eyes off of Mycroft, "get the car. Parker, would you mind packing Mr. Holmes' bag?"

The two men in question looked baffled. Mycroft examined the policeman's face, searching for clues to his intentions. All he saw was determination.

"What are you playing at?" he demanded.

"Oh, I'm not playing." Lestrade crossed his arms. "As soon as everything's ready, John and I are driving you to Airedale Hospital."

John said it before Mycroft could. "What?"

"He's tried to kill himself once already, John, and the way he's talking right now makes me wonder whether he might do it again. I know you had good intentions in bringing him here, but maybe he needs to be on full-time suicide watch. I hate to do that to a person, but I won't abet self-destruction."

Mycroft glared. It had been far too long since anyone –except Sherlock- had defied him like this, and he hated it. "You wouldn't-"

Lestrade leaned forward until their noses were inches apart. "No? Try me. You deserve better than you're allowing yourself."

"Be reasonable," John pleaded. He looked terrible, and Mycroft's anger softened enough for shame to seep in. This was an unfair thing to do to John, who was still visibly fragile from the morning's upheaval. The poor man had been experiencing fallout from Holmes antics for years. But _damn it-_

Mycroft realized that he was becoming impulsive. Like his brother had been. Fixating on a goal and not caring what the collateral damage might be.

Interesting. He couldn't remember the last time he'd experienced such reckless determination. As the British government, he'd controlled people (and swerved the odd Korean election) by calculating his next move with military precision and detachment, and letting a good strategy develop for ages if necessary. He'd never made snap decisions like he was doing now. He wasn't sure that he liked it. But he didn't hate it either.

"Listen." Lestrade's tone lost some of its severity. "I've got a proposition for you. Do it our way for one week. That means you keep taking your medication and stop fighting us. If, after the seven days are up, you want to discontinue medical treatment, then fine. We'll respect your wishes."

"That's fair, sir," Parker said.

It was fair, really. Mycroft still felt rebellious, and he wanted to remind Lestrade that at one time, he could have had the man demoted to street duty. But John and Parker were regarding him with such obvious distress that some of the fight left him.

"Fine," he said. "I suppose that's the least I could do for you, John."

"Least you could do for yourself," Gregory said.

"If you say so." Mycroft gave him the sulky glower that Sherlock had perfected at birth. "John, if you would be so good as to take this out?" He raised his hand with the IV attached. "I'd like to shower."

John hesitated. "Maybe a soak in the bath might be better. You could lose your balance and fall."

"I'll help you, Master Mycroft," Parker volunteered.

"No, I will." Lestrade had uncrossed his arms but his posture and expression remained alert and faintly challenging. "Parker, if he did fall over, you'd have to call one of us for help anyway."

Something stirred within Mycroft, something hot and intense that sparked to life when the handsome inspector threatened him with the hospital. "Really, Gregory?" he chided. "You want to see me naked?"

"Already have. Several times, when you were unconscious."

"Perhaps, but it won't be the same now that I'm awake."

The corner of Lestrade's mouth quirked upward. "No doubt."

The kitchen air, which had been heavy with first grief and then anger, now had the electrified atmosphere of a challenge accepted.


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft hovered in the bathroom doorway while Lestrade turned the taps on and carefully extended his open hand into the showerhead's downpour. "How hot do you like it?" he asked.

Mycroft smirked. "Hellishly so."

"That might not be wise. High temperatures could play havoc with your blood pressure. Here- see if this suits you."

He stepped back, and Mycroft approached to test the water. Not as hot as he preferred, but it would do. He had other things on his mind at the moment.

"Fine," he said. Then, without warning, he unbelted his robe and let it pool around his ankles. He'd already unbuttoned his pajama shirt when Lestrade's back was turned, and now he let it slide gracefully off his shoulders. Clasping his fingers together, he raised them high above his head and flexed his back muscles. When Lestrade failed to leave or even speak, Mycroft smiled to himself, hooked his thumbs around the waistband of his pajama bottoms, and lowered them slowly over his hips and rear before letting them join the puddle of silk on the tiles.

During Mycroft's years with MI6, his good looks often got him selected for 'valentine assignments', and he'd learned how to seduce both men and women. He'd loved that part of the job, and not just because of the sex: without their Armani suits and Dior dresses, most people were quivering, warm bodies for him to manipulate at will. He wondered if Gregory Lestrade was the same. The man cared about him to an extent that both pleased and infuriated him, but Mycroft felt that the power dynamic between them was grossly uneven. Right now they were like an orderly and a sick patient. The imbalance needed correcting, and he knew exactly how to do it.

Mycroft looked over his shoulder. Lestrade was watching him with utter absorption.

"I expect you to catch me if I faint."

"Of..." Lestrade cleared his throat. "Of course I will."

"Good." Mycroft stepped into the shower stall, conveniently forgetting to draw the curtain, and stood under the spray. Tossing his head back, he opened his mouth, let some water pour in, and spat a graceful, warm jet against the tiles.

Pretending to ignore his one-man audience, Mycroft grabbed a loofah, soaped it up, and ran it all over his body, moving with a dancer's grace. His other hand carressed his nipples and now-flat stomach while he sighed like the shower was better than sex or chocolate. His cock stirred and began to harden, but he didn't touch it. He intended to draw out the performance and undo the handsome, maddening inspector who ceaselessly defied him.

"Gregory," he said as he closed his eyes and licked the water droplets off his lips, "I'd forgotten how heavenly the showers here are. Even the water tastes delicious."

Resisting the urge to smirk, Mycroft finally stared back at Lestrade. He noted with triumph that the man's pupils were so dilated that his eyes seemed black. Lestrade also shifted from one foot to the other, and adjusted his belt as if his trousers were too tight.

"Done now?" He pulled a towel off the rack and held it out with both hands, looking nervous.

Mycroft stepped out without turning off the water. He glided across the heated floor toward Lestrade, feeling more powerful –more _alive_ \- than he had in a long time. He'd forgotten what a thrill it was to corner and capture a hesitant lover.

God, how long had it been since he'd truly lived?

"Done?" he echoed. They were inches apart now. "Gregory, I'm afraid that I've only started."

He grabbed the towel and tossed it aside. Lestrade's jaw dropped but he didn't protest: on the contrary, his wide eyes devoured Mycroft's body with ill-concealed hunger. Relishing the effect he was having, Mycroft advanced like a lazy, scheming jungle cat. He pressed against Lestrade until the other man's back touched the steam-slick wall.

"Mycroft," Lestrade half-gasped, half-whispered, "what are you doing?"

"You're full of ridiculous questions today. I think I'd better shut you up."

Mycroft understood Lestrade's turmoil. He wanted this, wanted Mycroft- and badly. The erection pushing against his zip confirmed it. But Gregory also worried that it was wrong, that Mycroft shouldn't be allowed to exert himself, that it could be dangerous.

Of course it could. And that excited Mycroft even more.

"I want you to fuck me," he hissed against the policeman's panting lips. "And I'm not letting you say no." With that he clamped one large, damp hand over Gregory's mouth, forcing his head back and silencing further protest.

His heart hammered, elevating the risk, but he didn't care. It had been far too long since he'd taken a man apart with his hands and mouth. Running the country and worrying about Sherlock had put several degrees of separation between him and normal human activities like spontaneous sex.

Wondering if he was as good as he used to be, Mycroft slid his free hand into Gregory's trousers, grasped the cock that was trying to break out of its cloth prison, and stroked its entire length, lingering on the foreskin and coaxing out streams of pre-ejaculate. Lestrade's muffled moan and shaking knees made him suspect that that he still had his 'touch'. That hypothesis was confirmed when Mycroft released Lestrade's mouth and the other man's chin dropped to his heaving chest.

"God, you're beautiful. But it could be-"

"It WILL be fantastic." Mycroft shut him up again, this time with a bruising kiss. He withdrew his hand, chuckling at the disappointed groan that resulted, and pulled the other man's damp shirt open. Breaking the kiss, he bent forward and washed his warm tongue over first one nipple and then the other, all the while palming Lestrade's straining crotch.

"Please," Gregory choked.

Mycroft bit his sensitive flesh gently. "Please what?"

"Please... suck me."

"But I'm having so much fun up here- all right! All right!"

Mycroft nearly crowed in victory when Lestrade grabbed a fistful of his hair and forced him to his knees. Smirking, he tugged Gregory's trousers and pants down, and closed his lips around the swollen cockhead. Widening his throat, he slid forward until his nose was buried in a sparse patch of pubic hair. Gregory sighed and rocked his hips, seeking deeper penetration. Feeling that he owed Lestrade a little payback for earlier annoyances, the elder Holmes slipped the man's erection out of his mouth with a wet pop and caressed the veined length with quick, teasing licks, all the while fisting his own leaking cock.

"Mycroft... oh shit... Christ... you're amazing."

Mycroft worked for a few minutes longer, lavishing special attention on a spot behind the head that made the policeman shake all over. Then he pulled away, stood, and said throatily, "Let's continue in the shower. We're getting dirtier by the minute."

Lestrade hurled off the rest of his clothes and followed him into the stall. Their mouths collided wetly in the steam; tongues clashed and probed. Gregory ran his hands down Mycroft's back and clasped his arse cheeks, parting them and squeezing just tightly enough for pain to spice up the pleasure.

"You sure you're OK?" he whispered.

"God, yes." And he was.

"Turn around."

Mycroft did, moaning in anticipation as Lestrade bent him over and crouched down. Strong fingers parted his buttocks just before a warm, wet tongue probed at his entrance.

"Oooh." Now it was Mycroft's turn to feel his senses go haywire. He braced his palms against his trembling knees as Gregory's tongue swept slowly, maddeningly, against that tight ring of muscle before nudging inside.

Mycroft's stomach muscles tightened at the intrusion and his hips jerked. Lestrade chuckled in triumph and probed deeper; the vibrations from his voice went straight to Mycroft's prostate, causing his arousal to spike. When Gregory reached between his thighs and began stroking him, he howled into his fist.

"Please, fuck me now," he begged. "And YES, I'm still fine."

Lestrade drew back and slapped his arse cheek. "Got lube?"

"There should be petroleum jelly in the medicine cabinet- Christ, hurry."

Lestrade was only out of the shower for a few seconds, but Mycroft was so desperate to be fucked (how long had it been since he'd enjoyed that Adonis-like escort in Athens?) that he gasped with relief when Gregory returned, gripped his hips, and prodded against his eager entrance. The policeman's lubricated erection pressed in slowly, too slowly; with a frustrated wail Mycroft reached back and tried to force him in.

Gregory laughed. "For once I'm not going to give you a hard time about being impulsive."

The only 'hard time' Mycroft wanted right now was a good pounding in his arse. He pressed his forehead against the wall tiles and let his awareness condense into a single point: the delicious burning ache of his hole being stretched and invaded. It felt so good to not focus on anything but pure carnal pleasure.

"I need this," he choked. Water ran down the sides of his bowed head and trickled into his mouth. "Need you in me, Gregory. All the way."

Lestrade moved forward, one broad hand rubbing over Mycroft's lower back in soothing yet possessive circles, and finally bottomed out. He ground eagerly against the willing body beneath him, relishing the feel of his balls tapping against Mycroft's. After taking a deep breath, he pulled out halfway, angled his hips so that his cockhead brushed against Mycroft's prostate, and plunged back in. Mycroft's cry was as sharp as gunfire.

"Oh, Gregory, yes, YES…"

Lestrade bent over and pulled him upright, positioning him to that both of his hands and one knee were braced against the shower wall. Then the fucking began in earnest.

"Christ, Mycroft, you're so bloody tight!"

"Hnnngh…. Fuck me harder, Gregory! Please."

Mycroft reached for his erection, but Lestrade was faster and began jerking him off with a tight, wet fist. He cried out as Gregory pounded and stroked him simultaneously, taking such complete possession of his body that he forgot himself, became nothing more than an instrument of pleasure.

"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"That's what we're doing, all right!"

Both men convulsed in orgasm within seconds of each other. Gregory shot his load deep into Mycroft's arse while Mycroft's release splattered heavily against the wall. Once the aftershocks subsided, Lestrade rested one wet cheek against his lover's shoulder.

"You okay?"

"Marvelous." Mycroft breathed deeply and turned his head. "That was incredible… you were terrific."

"So were you." Lestrade emitted a heavy sigh. Then Mycroft felt something brushing his skin; the policeman's lips were moving soundlessly.

"Gregory, what are you doing?"

"I'm praying for a miracle. With all my fucking might."

He didn't elaborate. He didn't have to.


	8. Chapter 8

After they had dried off and donned dressing gowns, Lestrade guided Mycroft toward his bed. "Just have a lie down," he pleaded when the elder Holmes protested that he was not tired. "For my peace of mind if not your safety."

"All right then. But let me put regular clothes on- I refuse to lie about in pajamas like a bloody invalid."

Parker appeared in the bedroom doorway. "Master Mycroft, I don't think that any of the shirts or trousers that you've kept here will fit you now. If you like, I'll check Master Sherlock's old wardrobe for something suitable."

"Please do. Thank you."

The butler turned to leave, but Lestrade stopped him. "Is John downstairs?"

"Dr. Watson went for a walk on the grounds, sir."

"Ah." Mycroft nodded. "I suppose we WERE rather loud, Gregory."

_We might as well be wearing signs proclaiming that we've had sex in the shower. Wet hair, afterglow, Gregory's arm around my waist..._

Lestrade looked mortified, but Parker just chuckled. "No matter, sir. It's been too quiet here for far too long. I'll be back, Master Mycroft, with some clothes for you."

After he left, Mycroft squeezed Gregory's shoulder. "It's all fine. He's seen and heard everything over the years."

"Yeah, I suppose. I hope John's all right, though."

"Yes, me too." As he faced the mirror and ran a comb through his tangled waves, Mycroft wondered if he had sounded anything like Sherlock when he groaned, cried, and begged. God help poor John if he had.

"I'd better go get dressed myself." Lestrade kissed him quickly on the cheek. "Be right back."

Alone, Mycroft stared into the mirror and touched the spot that Lestrade's lips had brushed. He studied his reflection, noting that the weight loss and post-coital bliss made him look years younger. Given time, he thought, he could probably grow to love Gregory Lestrade.

 _But you don't have time_ , an inner voice reminded him. _And that's how you want it, isn't it?_

Something stirred in his chest. It was an odd sensation- not pain, and not just an accelerated heartbeat either. He stilled, waiting to see if it intensified, but after a few more flutters the sensation went away.

Strange.

He took off the bathrobe, and was donning a pair of silk boxers when Parker returned with an old outfit of Sherlock's: a black cashmere jumper with white shirt and charcoal gray trousers with a fine black pinstripe.

"These should do nicely, sir. Let me help you."

Mycroft thanked him and stood quietly, allowing the old family servant to dress him in his brother's clothes. He recognized the ensemble: Mummy had bought it for Sherlock eight years ago, and it was one of the few clothing purchases that his younger brother had not hated on sight. The beloved past was all around him, unleashing a flood of emotion.

"I miss him, Parker. So damn much."

"Sir?"

Mycroft swallowed. "Sherlock."

"Ah." Parker smiled sadly. "I can imagine. You two had an unconventional relationship, but I have no doubt that you cared deeply for each other."

"I never realized how much until he was gone."

"That's usually the case, sir."

"I did what I did because of him. Because I missed him."

"I know."

Mycroft felt his hands curl into fists. "I should have succeeded the first time, Parker," he whispered. "Then you, John, and Gregory would not have to be on a death watch like this. And I wouldn't... wouldn't..." He stammered as he tried to find the right words.

"Be having second thoughts?"

Their eyes met.

"What do you mean?" Mycroft whispered. The fluttering sensation in his chest had returned.

"I mean Mr. Lestrade."

That was all Parker needed to say. Mycroft sat on the bed, not trusting his legs to hold him up any longer.

"I won't let myself think that way," he said. "There's no point."

"On the contrary, Master Mycroft." The old man sat beside him. "Now may not the time for regrets, but you can't put the rest of your life on hold. Remember Sandra, who was Head Cook here when you and Master Sherlock were children?"

"Of course. Best Scotch eggs ever."

"You know that she passed away from cancer last year?"

"Yes."

"She had a good idea of when it would happen, but you'd never have known it from looking at her. Worked as long as she was able, and doing all sorts of things that she'd never let herself do when she thought she had all the time in the world. Once, when I went down to the village to get the shopping, I saw her sitting outside the alehouse, buying pints for men half her age. At nights she went dancing with them."

"Really?" Mycroft let a small chuckle escape. "I remember her being quite shy around men. She used to turn red when Father spoke to her."

"She was." Parker smiled too. "But Sandra wasn't going to spend the rest of her days being afraid of anything. She tried new things, connected with new people. And today? Young men still visit her grave in the village cemetery with flowers. Sandra was only with them for days, but they miss her months later."

Mycroft looked at the floor and bit his lip. When he'd planned his suicide, he hadn't expected anyone to genuinely mourn him other than John and possibly Anthea. A man in his position could rarely allow people to get close enough to befriend him. Oh, there'd be a high-profile funeral attended by the dignitaries and political leaders he'd dealt with over the years, but once their duty was done, these people would quickly forget him. The Holmes family mausoleum would be sealed forever, having finally claimed the last of the line, and sooner or later the visits from John and Anthea, who would be assigned to a new boss, would taper off...

The arrival of Gregory Lestrade changed that. He knew it.

"Everything all right here?"

Lestrade stood in the doorway, looking concerned. He had changed into faded jeans and a dove gray turtleneck that made the silver in his hair seem brighter.

"Quite." Parker rose and straightened his jacket. "Master Mycroft and I were discussing the past."

"Oh." Lestrade came in, frown softening into a smile as he gazed at Mycroft. "You look good."

"So do you."

A door opened downstairs. Parker said, "Excuse me, gentlemen. That's probably Dr. Watson." Then he left.

"I guess we'll find out soon whether John heard us or not," Lestrade sighed. "He'll probably have a go at me for putting you in harm's way."

"You did no such thing, Gregory, and if he does, well, we'll just have to be quieter next time." Mycroft reclined on the bed. He hadn't been tired when Gregory originally suggested a lie-down, but now fatigue was setting in. The flutter in his chest persisted; perhaps it would go away if he rested.

"You should sleep," Lestrade said. "Do you want me to leave you alone?"

"Please don't." Mycroft looked up at him with such raw need that the policeman swallowed heavily before circling the bed and climbing onto the mattress beside him. Mycroft rolled onto his side, allowing Gregory to press against his back and hold him from behind. They laid there in lazy silence for several minutes. Then Lestrade spoke.

"Any idea what you'd like to do today, after we get up?"

Mycroft's answer was both immediate and inspired. "Let's go into the village. I need to visit a grave."


	9. Chapter 9

When Mycroft and Lestrade awoke, it was late afternoon. After freshening up they went downstairs, where they found John sitting at the dining room table. He laid down his newspaper at their approach and twisted his mouth, as if trying to decide whether to smile or scold.

"Afternoon," he said in a voice that gave nothing away. "I'm not surprised you slept for eight hours. Hot water and reckless behaviour do funny things to the human body."

Eight hours? Mycroft glanced at the clock. It read 2:00 p.m. Lestrade just stared at the floor, pretending to find it fascinating.

John stood. "Let me check you over. Just to be on the safe side."

Mycroft was over forty, but at that moment he felt like a teenager being called to the carpet. "I'm fine," he protested mildly before presenting himself for inspection. John pulled a stethoscope from a leather bag on the side table and checked both his pulse and heart rate.

"Hmmm." John must have been satisfied, for he sat back down and rummaged through his bag again. "Just be careful. Both of you. Mycroft, I'll administer your medication now. For the time being, you'll only need it once a day. But we'll have to play it by ear."

Mycroft sat down, rolled up his sleeve, and accepted the injections without protest.

"How are you faring, John?" Lestrade took a seat too, visibly relieved that the anticipated scolding wouldn't happen.

"Fine, I guess. I swear this place is haunted, though. I keep sensing Sherlock everywhere."

"We did spend a lot of time here as children." Mycroft gazed out the window, which opened onto a tranquil green panorama. "But I think Sherlock found the manor too quiet for his tastes. Not enough murders or mysteries."

"Well, we've got a mystery going on now, I think. I'm positive that my medical bag was moved this morning."

"Moved?" Lestrade echoed.

"I always keep it in the middle of that table. When I came back from my walk, it was pushed over to the side."

"Begging your pardon, Dr. Watson." Parker appeared with the silver tea service and a pile of sandwiches and delicacies. "One of the maids probably moved it while dusting."

One look at the table in question told Mycroft that it hadn't been dusted in ages. Parker was the only full-time resident of the manor; the rest of the small staff consisted of cleaners and groundskeepers who resided in nearby Nidderdale and came in a few times a week. The rooms were cleaned on rotation, and this one was due for attention any day now. He frowned, but said nothing. John Watson was clearly on his last legs and due for an eight-hour lie-down of his own. He'd probably moved the bag himself and forgotten it.

"We're going into the village in a bit," Lestrade said. His arm brushed Mycroft's as he reached for a cucumber sandwich. "Want to come along, John?"

"Thanks, but no. I don't think I'd last. I'm going to see if some crap telly can bore me to sleep."

They finished their tea in contemplative silence. Then John went into the huge sitting room to lie on the Queen Anne sofa while Lestrade brought one of the family cars out of the garage and drove it to the front door. Mycroft climbed into the passenger seat, and they were off.

Gregory touched his hand. "Are you sure that visiting this Sandra woman's grave won't be too morbid for you?"

"On the contrary, I think it might put things in perspective." Mycroft gazed out the window.

"Sounds like she was quite the fighter."

"Apparently."

A few minutes later, they reached an intersection (or the rural equivalent thereof) and paused while Gregory scanned the other roads for oncoming vehicles. He was about to proceed when a woman's scream came from the wooded area to their right.

"Get off me! Oh my God, someone please help!"


	10. Chapter 10

"What the hell?" Lestrade stared out the window. He pulled over and parked. "Stay here. I'm going-"

A young woman plunged out of the trees, sobbing heavily. Strands of her wild red hair stuck to her tear-streaked face, and she held her ripped T-shirt closed over her chest. "Please!" she cried, stumbling toward them. "Please get me out of here!"

Lestrade exited the vehicle and hurried toward her. "What's happened, Miss?" He reached into his trouser pocket and flashed a badge. "Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Scotland Yard."

"Please," she wailed, too terrified to do more than beg. She stared over her shoulder just as four hulking shapes broke out of the trees into the clearing.

Mycroft tagged the four men immediately: strangers to the area, manual laborers (calloused palms, weathered faces, and sunburned extremities suggested outdoor construction), and drunk enough to be dangerous. The girl was shocked as well as terrified: therefore, she knew one or more of them, and their aggression had come as an unwelcome surprise.

Mycroft undid his seat belt and exited the idling vehicle. Leaving Gregory to face four wild-eyed, snarling drunks alone was not an option.

"Get in the car, Miss," Lestrade said without taking his eyes off of her assailants. "And you lot- off with you."

"Don't think so." The largest, a curly-haired specimen who reeked of cheap beer and bad cologne, ambled forward. Lestrade flashed his badge again.

"I said off with you."

The other three hesitated, probably wondering whether the policeman was armed. The ringleader didn't seem to care.

"Piss off. I'd as soon beat on a copper as a slag."

The girl whimpered. Mycroft instinctively stepped in front of her. That weird fluttering started up in his chest again, but it was negligible compared to the blood that now thundered in his ears. He felt alert, excited, like every nerve was gearing for action.

"Someone could come along this road any minute," Lestrade said. "So there's no chance of you getting away with beating on anyone."

"He's right, boys," the ringleader jeered. "So I guess we'd better do this quickly."

Mycroft had not been in a fist fight since he'd ceased being a field agent over fifteen years ago. When he became the British government, the security around him had always been so tight that he only had to draw a gun less than a dozen times. His only physical altercations had been with his own brother, and in recent years John had been around to keep most of those tussles from progressing to the blood and bruises stage. Being sheltered and out of practice did not mean he'd forgotten the technique, though. Or the cardinal rule- throw the first punch, and make it a good one.

"This is your final warning," he said to the ringleader in those steel-edged tones that had shattered the bravado of many a terrorism suspect. "The young lady is obviously not interested. So go back in the trees with your friends and pull one off."

The girl gasped. Lestrade's mouth fell open.

"Or what? You'll rap my knuckles like one of your poncey headmasters?"

"I never rap knuckles." Mycroft smiled like a shark. "When a man irritates me, I usually kill him."

He gave the drunken fool 0.12 seconds to process that. Then he swung.

Mycroft's punch –a fierce uppercut that connected with the chin- sent his opponent sailing through the air. The man crashed onto the ground and lay there, breathing heavily and licking at the blood that trickled out of his swelling mouth. When he coughed, two broken teeth shot out. Mycroft knew, however, that he was too drunk to process the pain and let it stop him. Sure enough, he staggered to his feet, roared like an enraged bear, and lumbered forward.

Lestrade tried to intercept him, which galvanized the other three into action. When they lunged, the policeman swerved and struck. One went down immediately; the other two circled, looking for an opportunity to rush in and throw Lestrade off his feet.

The ringleader grabbed for Mycroft, who ducked and kicked him in the ribs. He could remember the advice of his MI6 instructors: _Holmes, you're tall but you lack bulk. So avoid grappling and wrestling if at all possible. Use your fists, elbows, knees, and feet and put all your strength behind each strike…._

A sharp and sudden pain in his chest interrupted his recall. He tried to cough, but all that came out was a gasping wheeze, followed by numbness in his left arm. When his opponent charged again, he managed to dodge out of reach, but the chest pain was intensifying and his airways now felt pinhole-thin.

_This is it. I'm having a heart attack._

Mycroft felt the raging drunk punch him in the face just before the world spun into a kaleidoscope of green grass and blue sky and dim forest. Now he was lying on his back, the pain blossoming from his left cheek a small annoyance compared to the fire that consumed his chest and squeezed his lungs. Gregory shouted and the girl screamed, but his fading senses barely registered either sound.

He felt a heavy object- a fist? A foot? – connect with his left side, flipping him onto his stomach. Now he was losing control of his eye movements-visual fragments assaulted his brain, intensifying the dizziness from lack of air.

It was agonizing. The pills had been more peaceful...

The earth rumbled. A vehicle was approaching. Mycroft heard doors slamming and footsteps pounding in his general direction.

"Get back! Or I'll shoot! I mean it!"

John Watson sounded like he was speaking at the other end of a long, hazy tunnel, but Mycroft still recognized him. Someone was turning him onto his back and opening his collar, but his now-cloudy vision could only make out silhouettes.

"Mycroft!" Lestrade hovered over him. His breath reeked of blood and fear. "John, he's not breathing!"

Air suddenly rushed into Mycroft's tortured lungs. He gulped frantically, willing the darkness and pain to retreat. Instead, nausea erupted and compounded the throbbing around his heart. His stomach lurched, and he vomited all over the muddied, torn sweater that Sherlock had cherished. Then he knew nothing more.


	11. Chapter 11

When Mycroft awoke, cool oxygen was softly blowing on him and a monitor beeped nearby. He opened his eyes, but shut them again quickly when the fluorescent overhead lights seared his vision.

Hospital. He was in a hospital. Before blocking out the light, he'd glimpsed a green curtain pulled around his bed. He was either in a common ward (not likely) or an observation area.

His left side throbbed. He remembered being thrown down and kicked there when he and Gregory brawled with those hooligans…

Gregory!

And John! Hadn't he heard John just before passing out?

Mycroft sat up, nearly ripping the oxygen cannula off of his face. Chair legs scraped against the floor as Gregory and John jumped to his side.

"Hey," Lestrade said softly. Mycroft winced at the sight of his black eye and bruised cheek. "You gave us quite the scare."

"Where am I?"

"Airedale Hospital."

"I had a heart attack." It was not a question.

"Yes. A minor one." John touched his hand. "How do you feel?"

"Damnable. Is the girl all right?"

Lestrade nodded. "Those bastards have all been charged with assaulting her and us."

"And you?"

"What about me?"

Mycroft tried to smile, but hissed in pain. He'd forgotten about the punch to his face. "You look as horrible as I feel."

"I'm all right. Been years, though, since I was in that kind of mix-up."

John glanced at the heart monitor, which was connected to Mycroft's chest via a series of wires. He chewed his lip thoughtfully, then took a blood pressure cuff off of the bedside table and wrapped it around the elder Holmes' arm. Mycroft waited until he'd gotten a reading before saying, "Regardless of what it tells you, John, I want to leave. I'm not staying here."

John removed the cuff and clicked a penlight on. "I knew that would be your response. But humour me anyway. Look this way, please."

As Mycroft obeyed, he remembered something.

"You suddenly showed up during the fight, and armed, if I remember correctly. How did you know?"

The doctor put the penlight away and exchanged glances with Lestrade. "That is the mystery."

"What do you mean?"

John took out his mobile, scrolled through his messages until he found the one he wanted, and then held the device out to Mycroft, who peered at the screen.

The coordinates of the intersection were specified, followed by the message:

_Your friends are about to be seriously injured. Come now._

Mycroft frowned. He took the phone and stared at the letters as if they were a handwriting sample that could give away the sender's motives, personality, and life story.

"We traced it," Lestrade said. "The number is assigned to a prepaid mobile. I made some calls to the office while we were waiting for you to wake up, and learned that the minutes are topped up by gift card purchases."

"We're being watched." Mycroft handed the mobile back to John and leaned back.

"Apparently so. When I first received that text, I didn't know what to think. I couldn't afford to ignore it, but it could have been a trap, so I brought my gun. Thank God I did, too." John stood. "You've stabilized, so I'm going to see about having you discharged. We can talk more in the car."

When he left, Mycroft said, "Gregory, I'm going to give you Anthea's number. Provide her with all the details that you've collected so far about this prepaid phone. She'll take it from there."

"You think she can find out more than my office could?"

"I know she can."

Gregory smiled, but his eyes betrayed his worry. "I thought we'd lost you today. I still want to go down to the jail and take those bastards apart piece by piece."

Mycroft reached for his hand. "They'll get done for assault and attempted rape, and then their fellow inmates can take them apart on our behalf. Don't stress yourself."

"Easier said than done." Gregory's fingers laced with his and squeezed tightly. "Mycroft, I've only known you for days, and to be frank, you pissed me off and worried me during most of them. But I think I might be…."

"Yes, I know. I feel the same way."

And for the very first time, Mycroft felt regret sink in.

******

Night had fallen by the time Mycroft's discharge was complete. He and Lestrade rode back to the manor in their car while John followed in the Citroen he'd jumped into after receiving the warning text.

Wrapped in a blanket and wearing scrubs the hospital had provided to replace his torn clothing, Mycroft was physically exhausted. His face, chest and side still hurt, and he felt lethargic from the mild sedative John administered to slow his heart rate, but his mind was alert and fixated on the mystery of who had sent the text that had saved his and Gregory's lives.

When asked how many people had his mobile number, John counted forty names in his contacts list and admitted that he'd passed it on to others during past cases. Hearing that, Mycroft promptly dismissed that avenue of investigation; besides, anyone with the right connections could find John's number if they wanted it badly enough.

As requested, Lestrade called Anthea during Mycroft's pre-discharge examination. She was under the impression that her boss was in Yorkshire Dales to recover mentally from his suicide attempt, and Lestrade did not correct her. After giving her all the information Sergeant Donovan had provided on the prepaid phone, he asked her to trace the top-up cards to their point of purchase, collect CCTV footage for the locations and times matching the computerized sales records, and upload it to a secure FTP site that Mycroft had access to. Anthea agreed without asking a single question, saying that she would e-mail John the FTP link before morning.

"Please tell Mr. Holmes that we miss him," she said before hanging up.

When Gregory passed on her message, Mycroft felt a pang of regret for the second time that day. He'd tried to kill himself because he'd been in serious emotional pain, pain that still lingered and attacked with a vengeance whenever he encountered something that reminded him of Sherlock. But it was becoming more apparent that tunnel vision had driven him to make an irreversible mistake. He couldn't look at Gregory Lestrade without catching the glimpse of a future now denied and feeling a new, different distress.

When they were minutes from home, Gregory yawned and then swore as his bruised facial muscles protested.

"Ow, fuck- I'll be feeling this for a month."

Mycroft made a sympathetic noise. "I'm afraid I wasn't very good backup- I'm sorry."

Lestrade extended one arm and drew him closer. "I'm just glad you made it."

A temporary reprieve, Mycroft thought. He let his eyes drift shut, but his mind refused to back away from the question of their savior's identity.

Whoever it was either knew John or was interested enough to obtain his mobile number. They also knew that Mycroft and Lestrade were John's "friends". They clearly had the manor under surveillance with equipment that covered the mile from the house to the intersection where the fight took place. But who were they? A friend would not be so secretive, while an enemy would not have intervened today- unless they were not ready to see Mycroft or Lestrade die just yet.

If Sherlock were still alive, Mycroft would have been tempted to pin it on him. When he turned eighteen and obtained his share of the family assets, Sherlock withdrew a huge sum in cash and vanished from his older brother's radar for six months. The disappearance was not complete: the younger man delighted in spying on Mycroft from afar and sending him teasing commentary via text. Just before revealing himself again, he'd sent Mycroft a message stating, _I can see you at the corner table and so can that Russian assassin near the window. Lure him into the toilet and get rid of him immediately- we need to talk about the Brighton house._

Mycroft dismissed the notion as wishful thinking. Sherlock's body had never been recovered, but if he had survived, there was no way he would have let John and Mycroft suffer like they had. His self-proclaimed sociopathy had its limits, much as he'd always liked to claim otherwise.

Mycroft hoped that the video footage Anthea was assembling for them provided answers instead of more questions. He wasn't handling uncertainty too well any more.

When they arrived at the manor, Mycroft was too weary to protest when Parker fussed over him and swapped his hospital scrubs for silk pajamas. He let himself be put to bed like an invalid. But when Gregory was about to leave the room to change, he summoned enough energy to plead, "Stay with me?"

Lestrade smiled gently. "I was planning to, Myc. Be right back."

_Myc._

While he waited, Mycroft burrowed deeper into the pillows and embraced the nickname like a precious talisman. He had always been Mycroft, Mr. Holmes, Sir, or one of Sherlock's infantile insults. Myc... it sounded like something Gregory would call him after they had been together for years, after Mycroft had gone gray and Gregory had gone, well, grayer.

When Gregory returned and slid under the covers next to him, Mycroft rolled partway onto his undamaged side and buried his face against the other man's flannel pajama shirt. Lestrade gently embraced him and stroked his back until he fell asleep.


	12. Chapter 12

The sun was rising when Mycroft opened his eyes, turning the skyline a vivid orange and infusing the bedroom with a soft light. When he rolled over to glance at the clock, his bruised side throbbed, but thankfully the chest pain was gone.

Gregory snuggled against him, one arm over his chest and a sturdy leg across his thighs. Although Mycroft could have moved him easily, he preferred to lie there and enjoy the feeling of being pressed into the mattress by a warm and muscular body. Turning his head on the pillow, he observed that Gregory looked years younger when asleep. His black eye and bruised cheek were inconsistent with his peaceful expression, but they did not repel Mycroft, who reached out and gently stroked his jaw line.

Gregory stirred at the touch. Then his eyes fluttered open.

"Myc," he whispered, working his mouth into a lopsided smile to avoid aggravating his sore cheek.

"You're beautiful when you sleep."

Lestrade laughed. "Thanks for lying so nicely, but I know I look like shit."

"I'm not lying, Greg." Mycroft shifted so that they were face-to-face. When his crotch brushed against Lestrade's knee, he gasped, and Lestrade's breath caught in his throat. They stared at each other, Mycroft unable to speak as blood and desire pooled in his groin and made his cock swell.

"Myc-" Lestrade began hoarsely.

Without taking his eyes away from Gregory's, Mycroft gripped the waistband of his pajama bottoms and slid them down. As he kicked them off, Gregory licked his lips and made a desperate, hungry sound.

"My God, I want to, but-"

"Greg, I'm all right. Unless you plan to throw me down and kick me, I'll survive."

Mycroft slid forward until their bodies were crushed together, inflicting a delicious pressure on their growing erections. They rutted against each other until the friction became too intense and threatened to bring them both to orgasm on the spot. Gregory reluctantly pulled back before pushing his knee between Mycroft's naked thighs. Mycroft bit Gregory's neck just hard enough to make pleasure override pain.

"Christ, you love to bite, don't you?"

"Depends on what's in my mouth."

Mycroft relaxed his hold and suckled on the reddened skin. His fingers ran nimbly over Gregory's shirt, undoing the buttons and baring the other man's muscular chest. When he started twisting and teasing the now-exposed nipples, Lestrade arched his back and moaned.

"I want to fuck you so badly," he whispered against Mycroft's ear.

Mycroft smiled. "Be gentle," he teased before rolling carefully away and reaching for the unscented hand lotion on the bedside table. He handed it to Lestrade, who pumped some onto his fingers and draped Mycroft's leg over his waist.

Mycroft moaned when Gregory breached his entrance with first one and then two slicked fingers. He leaned forward for more kisses, feeling his hard cock smear fluid all over his lover's stomach as he eagerly rode those probing digits. When Lestrade brushed against his prostate, he trembled and begged, "Please- now."

Gregory pulled his fingers out, grasped his hips, and rolled onto his back, pulling Mycroft on top of him. "Be careful, Myc."

Mycroft got up onto his knees, reaching back with one hand to take Lestrade's cock and hold it steady. Then he slowly lowered himself onto it. When he was fully seated, they groaned in unison. Lestrade, still gripping his hips, began to move him up and down, careful not to strain or apply pressure to his injured side.

"Oh, fuck!" Mycroft threw his head back and gloried in the sensation of each thrust grazing his prostate. His heart rate skyrocketed and a warning twinge went off in his chest; he breathed deeply through his nose and slowed his rocking until the feeling subsided.

Lestrade was watching him with concern. Mycroft smiled reassuringly and bent down to claim his mouth. While their tongues intertwined, Lestrade moved one arm up around Mycroft's shoulders while sliding the other hand between their bellies and grasping his red, leaking cock.

"G-god, Greg," Mycroft croaked. He began to ride his lover harder, sending the bedsprings into a symphony of creaks and wails. He knew that he was dying and there was someone out there watching them, someone who might not be as benevolent as their actions yesterday suggested, but right now all that mattered was this moment and everything it consisted of: Gregory making love to him while the soft light of a newborn day infused the room….

"Greg," Mycroft gasped, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. "God… I'm so close..." He worked his arms around Lestrade's neck and pressed their cheeks together, whimpering as the sweet pressure rose. When he finally shot all over Gregory's hand, he squirmed and bucked so wildly that Gregory's own orgasm followed.

Mycroft wasn't sure how long they laid there in each other's arms, breathing heavily and basking in the hormonal afterglow. When they heard John's bedroom door open they froze, and didn't move until his footsteps disappeared down the staircase.

"Think he heard us?" Gregory wondered.

"I think the county heard us," Mycroft admitted. He slid carefully off of Lestrade's softening member and rested on his stomach. "I smell coffee- looks like we got Parker up too."

Gregory chuckled and tapped his arse. "I suppose we'd better get up, shower, and go downstairs. John will want to make sure I haven't broken you."

"Broken me? I'd say you fixed me."

They kissed again. Then Mycroft said, "Let's have breakfast and see what Anthea's found for us. And then, if there's time, I want to go to the cemetery to visit a lady."


	13. Chapter 13

As they huddled around John's laptop, Mycroft silently blessed Anthea. In a matter of hours, she had identified the four mobile shops where the top-up cards had been bought, confirmed the purchase times, and pulled camera footage that covered the shop entrances during those time frames. Now they began the serious business of viewing the video clips for a familiar face.

Mycroft knew that the exercise could be a waste of time; their watcher could be sending minions out to do his or her errands. But at the moment, this was all they had to work with.

The three men hovered over the laptop screen while Parker discreetly refilled teacups and coffee mugs and forced pieces of fruit and buttered toast into Mycroft's hand. "You need to keep your energy levels up, sir," he said pointedly, an ill-concealed twinkle in his eye.

By the time they had finished watching all the footage, Mycroft decided that there was good news and bad news. The good news was that the same person was seen entering the mobile shops each time a top-up card was bought. The bad news was that none of them recognized her.

She was no older than eighteen, and invariably wore jeans and T-shirts. Mycroft noticed that over the three months that the footage encompassed (which Anthea skilfully condensed into an hour), the quality of her apparel improved: during the last card purchase, which took place a week ago, she wore Guess jeans and carried a Louis Vuitton bag.

Someone was paying her then. Handsomely.

They watched the videos again, noting the exact time the girl entered the shop(s). "Please e-mail this information to Anthea and have her determine who this young lady is," Mycroft directed John. "I highly doubt that she's anything more than an errand runner, but she definitely knows who the phone belongs to."

Lestrade looked uneasy. "She won't be hurt, will she?"

"Not at my direction. But she may have to be detained for awhile, especially if she doesn't cooperate."

"So you don't think she's the one watching us?" John asked.

"Anything's possible, but until we know different, I'm going to say no." Mycroft sat back in his chair, steepled his fingertips, and rested his chin on them. "John, please also ask Anthea to survey all hotels and guest homes within a twenty-mile radius of this house for any recent check-ins, and e-mail you the particulars. Whoever this is probably did not arrive in the area until we did."

"Okay." John opened his e-mail programme and began typing.

After the e-mail was sent, Mycroft said, "Greg, let's go into the village now. John, you want to come along?"

John looked uncertain. "I think you should stay in. Your system underwent a lot of trauma yesterday."

"You heard us this morning. I rebounded nicely."

Lestrade flushed. So did John.

"Yes, well, erm, I wish you wouldn't take chances."

"I'm not going to live in a bubble. So be prepared for more 'chances'."

Gregory laughed at that. So did Parker, who was clearing away the cups and saucers. "I've known Master Mycroft his entire life, Dr. Watson," the old man said with mock gravity. "Never been one for staying in the safety zone."

"So I gather." John shrugged in defeat and reached for his bag. "If you're dead set on going out, let's get your medication out of the way first. Then yes, I'll come along, even if only to protect you from your own stupidity."

******

Mycroft knew which grave was Sandra Dunston's without having to ask. A breeze blowing through the small cemetery brought the scent of freshly cut flowers to his nose the moment he, Gregory, and John walked through the gates. He looked about, spotted a small monument with a few wreaths and at least a dozen bouquets banked against it, and headed over.

Here was the final resting place of a woman who found joy in life after she knew she was losing hers. Mycroft understood that tragedy could beget wisdom; as the poet Roethke once wrote, "In a dark time, the eye begins to see." Grief and depression drove him to commit an act that abbreviated his future, and there was no way he could undo that damage. But he could, and intended to, make the most of the time he had left.

So much had happened in three days alone. He'd fallen in love, something he'd never allowed himself to do before; watching over Sherlock had always taken precedence over personal needs and desires. That in itself guaranteed that his last days would be richer than his past had been.

John surveyed the flowers and whistled. "I'm impressed. This woman's been gone over a year and she's still obviously missed like mad."

"She made a lot of people happy, I hear," Lestrade said, lacing his fingers with Mycroft's. "They only knew her for a few months, but they'll probably never forget her. My mum always said that love doesn't die, just the lovers."

"I believe that," John said softly, looking away. Mycroft knew without asking that he was remembering Sherlock. "Uh-" his voice thickened "-do you mind if I go sit in the car?" Then, without waiting for an answer, he strode out of the cemetery, hands buried in his pockets and shoulders beginning to quiver.

"Christ," Lestrade murmured. "Poor John. I forgot that he's still in pain."

And my death will add to it soon, Mycroft realized. He bowed his head and whispered, "Greg, I'm so sorry."

"For what, Myc?"

"I'm going to die soon –for reasons I brought on myself- and you're going to suffer like John is now. I don't care about myself, but you two-"

Gregory released his hand, took him by the shoulders, and turned him until they were face to face. "Stop that right now and listen. I was married before, you know. Spent fifteen years with the wrong person. Now I'm spending two weeks with the right one. Thank you for giving that joy to me, Myc. It's worth the hell I'll go through... afterwards."

Mycroft hugged him back. "God, I love you."

"I love you too. And I promise you this." Lestrade paused and glanced down at Sandra's color-strewn grave. "Wherever you are, you'll be getting flowers from me until my own heart stops beating."


	14. Chapter 14

After leaving the cemetery, Mycroft and Lestrade fetched John, who'd gotten himself under control although bloodshot eyes betrayed his earlier struggle, and they walked through Nidderdale. Mycroft acted as tour guide, pointing out the landmarks that he'd come to know well after so many summers spent at the manor. John and Gregory seemed to enjoy the sights, but he wondered if they were also trying to spot their watcher in the shops and streets. Just like he was doing.

"It's lovely here," John said when as they lingered before a sweet shop that advertised itself as the country's oldest. "I can see why your parents had to buy property."

"When we were children, Sherlock and I found it dreadfully boring," Mycroft admitted. He surveyed the street's reflection in the shop window, but no one was paying attention to them in particular. Stepping away, he said, "Now let me show you- oh!"

Dizziness struck with such force that he reeled, and would have fallen if Lestrade hadn't grabbed his arm. Breathing deeply, he struggled to reorient himself.

"Is it your chest?" John demanded, taking his other arm.

"No, I'm not in any pain. Just… dizzy."

"Let's sit down a minute." Gregory led him over to a bench. Once he was seated, John checked his pulse.

"It's higher than normal. You should rest. Let's go home."

Gregory stood. "I'll bring the car. Stay with him, John."

After he left, Mycroft leaned against John and closed his eyes. He could hear people stopping and asking John if they could help.

"No, but thank you very much…. Yes, he's fine, just tired…. Late night."

When Gregory returned with the car, they bundled Mycroft into the back seat. Lestrade sat with him, holding him tightly, while John drove.

"Myc, listen to me. If you start to feel any pain anywhere, you're to tell us immediately. Understood?"

"Yes," Mycroft mumbled against Gregory's shirt. The dizziness receded, and now he felt weary but safe. If only he could die like this when the time came: warm and comfortable, and in the arms of the man who loved him. Speaking of which...

"John?" he said suddenly.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry if I'm about to distress you, but I need to know." He lifted his face from Lestrade's chest and met John's eyes in the rear view mirror. "What's my death going to be like? Please be honest with me. Am I going to have an attack like yesterday's, only worse? Because if that's the case, I'm telling you now that I don't want to go that way. It was horrible. I felt like I was suffocating. _I vomited all over myself_."

Lestrade drew him closer, trying to calm him, but Mycroft refused to be placated. He was trying not to panic. He knew what pain was: he'd been shot before, broken his leg, fractured his skull- the damage list was endless. But suffocation and the blind, primitive terror it aroused frightened him. "John? Answer me."

John inhaled deeply, and Mycroft watched him slip into doctor mode: that sympathetic but impersonal role that allowed him to deliver bad news without destroying himself.

"If we let it, Mycroft, then yes, your passing would be exactly like that. But it won't happen. I've… I've got everything here I'll need to keep you comfortable."

Mycroft wasn't satisfied. "You can't be sure. It could come on suddenly, before you had time to do anything."

"That will only happen if you do something stupid like try fighting a brick shithouse again. Mycroft, I've provided palliative care to others with conditions similar to yours. Please, just trust me. It'll be-" John swallowed heavily as his armour cracked "-peaceful. You have my word."

Gregory pressed his lips into Mycroft's hair and blinked back tears. Mycroft felt his anger and anxiety dissipate and relaxed into the other man's embrace again.

"Thank you, John. I'm sorry, I needed to know."

"I understand."

They were approaching the manor now. Mycroft sat up in preparation for exiting the vehicle, but his hand sought Gregory's and gripped tightly.

As they pulled into the garage, John's mobile dinged, announcing a new text. He glanced at it, and exclaimed, "Oh, my God!"

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"It's Anthea. The girl has been picked up. I'll be e-mailed a link to a live video feed in twenty minutes."


	15. Chapter 15

The girl looked frightened. When Anthea escorted her into the interrogation room, her head practically did a 360. Not that there was much to see: the chamber was only eight feet square and empty except for a thick metal chair.

"What is this?" she asked.

"Just sit down, Clare," Anthea replied politely. "You're going to talk to a gentleman who has some questions for you."

"Like hell! You pull me off the street like I'm a fucking terrorist, there's no way I trust anything you say, bitch."

"Please sit down."

"Fuck off."

Clare jerked out of Anthea's grasp and swung for the other woman's face. Anthea blocked the punch without losing her patient expression, twisted the girl's arm, and tossed her into the chair. She pressed a button on the chair's back, activating the restraints, and attached an earpiece to Clare's head.

"Now be a good girl and answer the gentleman's questions."

When Anthea looked up at the camera and nodded, Mycroft dialed a number on John's mobile. Anthea took out her Blackberry, pressed the connect button, and nodded again.

"Hello, Clare," Mycroft said. "I need your help."

The girl jerked in surprise at his soft voice in her ear. "Who are you? Why am I here?"

"My name's Mr. Holmes. I'm only going to ask you some questions. Then you'll be released unharmed."

"What is this place?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that and let you live."

Those words frightened her into silence. She bit her lip and looked all over the room again before eying Anthea uneasily.

"Clare, all I want to know about is the phone you've been buying top-up cards for. Or to be more precise, who's sending you to buy them."

She moaned. "Oh, shit, please tell me he's not a terrorist. Because if he is, I swear I didn't know."

"I believe you. Please tell me about him. And about your arrangements with him."

"Okay. About three months ago, I checked the student job board- I go to City University- and found a posting for an on-call PA. I wasn't having any luck with my other applications so I sent an e-mail-"

Mycroft interrupted. "Was this an online advertisement?"

"No. It was a printout tacked on a notice board that sometimes has jobs for students."

"What was the e-mail address?"

"I don't remember. I think it was a Gmail one. I only sent one message."

"Go on."

"A bloke who said his name was James Cochrane e-mailed me back and asked me to meet him at a Starbucks later in the week. He asked me to wear a pink jumper, so he'd recognize me. I said I would. I mean, it was strange, but we were meeting in a public place, and if it did lead to a legit job-"

"Which Starbucks, Clare? And what date?"

"It was in Notting Hill. I'm sorry, I don't remember the exact day, but I think it was midweek." She began to shake.

"That's all right. Three months is a long time. Continue."

"So I met him. He told me that he needed someone to do the odd bit of shopping for him. He'd pay in advance every time. I didn't just get top-up cards for him, he also wanted strange stuff like hair dye, bleach, liquid soap. When I got his shopping done, I'd text him, he'd tell me where to meet him, and he'd pay me. Really well, in fact. Sometimes over two hundred pounds."

Mycroft felt his pulse quicken. "Describe him, Clare."

"Not bad-looking." She smiled a little. "Nice clothes. Pale. A little thin but not scrawny. Dark hair. Maybe thirty."

"Oh, my God." John, who'd been hovering over the laptop speakers, went to his knees on the dining room floor. "Oh, sweet Jesus."

"Christ almighty," Lestrade managed. "It can't be. It's impossible."

Mycroft breathed deeply through his nose to calm his racing heart. "When did you last see Mr. Cochrane?"

"Last week. He said he was going to the country and would let me know when he was back."

"That's good, Clare. Thank you- you've done splendidly. In a minute I'll tell the lady to release you and drop you off wherever you want to be taken. But there's one more thing I want you to do."

"Okay, sure. What?"

"Is your phone with you?"

"Yeah. In my bag. She-" the girl nodded toward Anthea "- took the bag off me though."

"She'll return it in a moment. And when she does, I need you to send a text."


	16. Chapter 16

They sat at the dining room table, barely touching the light dinner that Parker had laid out. When the old man, in response to a query about his pale face, admitted that he had a severe headache, Mycroft ordered him to take the night off and rest. None of them told him about the afternoon's staggering discovery.

"Let's hold off until we know more," Mycroft said.

Following instructions, Clare had sent her 'employer' the following text:

_A man just stopped me at the Starbucks where we last met. Said he saw us there and knows you. Said to tell you that Big Brother knows you made it and that you're in the country. Says thanks for the save, and urgently needs to talk. Not sure what it's about, but thought you should know._

And now they waited.

As per Mycroft's earlier request, Anthea had checked all the local inns and guesthouses with a computerized guest registration system to find out who had taken accommodations during the last week. She found over thirty check-ins, which was not unusual for that time of year, and all of them seemed to be legitimate. But Mycroft also knew that there were dozens of other places that operated on a cash-only basis and scorned computers as evil artificial intelligence.

Sherlock, of course, would know which places were so basic in their operating methods.

"Is it possible?" John stared vacantly out the window, pushing his untouched chicken salad around the plate. "I'm not even daring to really hope…. I mean, good God."

"I think something's not on." Lestrade wasn't eating either, but he appeared to be more perturbed than distressed. "Sherlock's body was never recovered, but that means nothing. He's not the only one who fell into that water and disappeared forever. I read that there was a similar accident the year before: a pair of hikers drowned and the Swiss authorities failed to locate their remains. And of course Moriarty vanished too."

"I don't want to believe that Sherlock would survive and not come back to us." John gave up on the food and rubbed his eyes. He seemed to have aged ten years during the past two hours. "He would never… well, he just would never. Not voluntarily. And whoever this James Cochrane is doesn't sound like he's anyone's prisoner."

"Myc?" Lestrade turned to him. "You're being quiet. What do you think?"

When Mycroft's heartbeat began accelerating at Clare's story, John put aside his own grief and confusion long enough to give him a low dose of diazepam. His physical processes quickly slowed, but unfortunately so did his mind. He wasn't groggy, but his normally razor-sharp faculties were dulled.

"In a few hours, I'm sure I'll be a better judge," he said. "But I confess that something makes me uncomfortable."

" _Everything_ about this is messed up," Lestrade said grimly.

"Can you be specific?" John asked.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes to the faint dizziness. "Clare described Sherlock to a T."

"Yes," John said.

"What we all find so convincing on an emotional level troubles me logically, John. If Sherlock had survived and failed to reveal himself to us after all this time, it would mean that he's not ready or willing to do so just yet."

"So what are you getting at?" Lestrade leaned forward.

"My brother knew that I have surveillance systems in place all over London, Greg. Monitored by people who know what he looks like. If he were alive and intent on staying off my radar, he wouldn't, well, he wouldn't look like _himself_. He'd be disguised. Clare would not have been able to give such a picture-perfect description."

Lestrade nodded slowly. "I agree. But then who's James Cochrane and why does he look like Sherlock?"

"That, Greg, is precisely what troubles me. I'm hoping that Clare's text will get him paranoid enough to make a blunder."

They sat in silence for awhile longer. Finally Gregory stood up and said, "I can't stomach anything to eat, but I'm up for some brandy."

"Me too." John pushed his plate away. He looked morose. "Mycroft, you'd best skip it. Alcohol won't mix well with the diazepam."

"Agreed."

The three of them had been indulging in an after-dinner brandy for the past two days. Mycroft suspected that John would be having more than just one tonight, and the next two hours proved him right. In fact, the doctor got himself so drunk that he became a sobbing, agitated mess.

"I LOVED your crazy, fucked-up brother, Mycroft, you hear me?" he slurred as he backed into a corner of the dining room and slid down the wall until he was huddled on the floor.

"I hear you, and I know you did, John." Mycroft reached for him, but John waved him away and wept into his knees.

"Don't touch me, you selfish bastard! Now you're going to go and leave me too! What is it with you Holmeses? Loving either of you is like getting your heart burned out."

Mycroft winced and Lestrade scolded, "John, that's uncalled for, and you know it. You're drunk- consider yourself cut off."

"Oh, fuck you."

Gregory, who seemed curiously sluggish after only two drinks, said, "Myc, let's get him into bed, and then we should go ourselves. It's late, and there's nothing more we can do until there's a response to that text."

"I know." As Mycroft bent toward John's rocking, weeping form, Lestrade added gently, "Don't pay attention to what he just said either. He's been through a lot today, and he's drunk."

"I know. But he's not exactly wrong."

"He is about the heart-burning bit. Trust me on that."

John continued to moan and mumble nonsense, but didn't resist as they bundled him upstairs and got him into bed. After leaving a glass of water and two paracetamol on his nightstand, Mycroft and Gregory prepared for bed themselves. Lestrade was unusually weary, but still hugged Mycroft tightly and stroked his hair before falling asleep. Mycroft remained awake for another hour, mulling over the day's events before reluctantly nodding off.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been dozing before the silence was pierced.

"Going to sleep so soon, Big Brother? Don't be so lazy. I understand that you urgently need to talk to me, and I'd be more than happy to hear your last words."

Mycroft's eyes flew open at the soft but menacing voice, which had an Irish lilt. Leaning over him, recognizable despite the room's dimness, was Jim Moriarty.


	17. Chapter 17

Mycroft instinctively reached for Gregory's shoulder, without tearing his stare away from the intruder. Moriarty looked amused.

"I'm afraid that he'll be out until morning. I'm sure that as a Yarder he can ordinarily hold his liquor quite well. But spiked brandy is more than even he can handle."

Spiked brandy. Then John would also be comatose until morning.

This had all been planned.

"Come on, Mycroft, let's not make this boring. Ask me anything. I know you're dying of heart failure- I mean, curiousity."

Mycroft found his voice. "It was you. You're the one who's been watching us."

Moriarty pouted. "Yes, and you never thanked me for texting Johnny-boy to let him know that you were in trouble. That's unacceptable; you had my number, after all."

"Why?"

"Why stop those yobs from using you and your boyfriend as footballs? For one thing, amateur athletics bore me. No finesse, nothing to be gained by watching them. For another, I want to kill you myself. Like I did your brother. Perhaps I'm just being obsessive, but I'd feel so much better with both of you dead. Nothing personal."

So Sherlock really was gone. Not that he'd ever truly believed otherwise, but hearing it from the man who caused his brother's fatal plunge erased all doubt. Regarding that cunning Irish countenance, Mycroft felt hate surge through him."I'm glad you saved me then. Because when I choke the life out of you, I'll die happy."

Jim tutted. "You disappoint me. Such clichéd talk. I expected you to be more entertaining when we finally met. You are supposed to be the most dangerous man in Britain, aren't you? More brilliant than your brother, and with enough resources to make our game my biggest challenge yet. Oh, I've craved this meeting, Mycroft, like a nice, juicy steak."

The little bastard actually licked his lips and grinned like a crazed jackal.

Mycroft slid his hand under the pillow, searching for the straight razor he'd hidden there the day before. One of his favorite MI6 trainers once said, "When something doesn't make sense, carry a weapon until it does." Seeing now that their watcher had not been his beloved brother but a malevolent psychopath, he was glad he'd followed the advice.

"Of course, you've shown yourself to be weaker than Sherlock in some respects. A barbiturate overdose, Mycroft, really? Very teenage thing to do. Why didn't you just pop an Indigo Girls CD on and open your wrists in a hot bath while you were at it, hmmm?"

"It was you John saw in the dining room, wasn't it? Disguised as Sherlock to torment him further."

Mycroft couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw a flicker of confusion cross the consulting criminal's features. The man recovered quickly, however.

"Poor Johnny-boy. Seeing his dead boyfriend everywhere, is he? I think losing Sherlock really undid him, and it's only going to get worse." Moriarty thrust his hands into his jacket pockets and smiled. "I was going to kill him too, originally. But he's such a loyal little pet, what better entertainment than to gradually leave him with no one to be loyal to? Better than lobotomizing him with a steak knife, which was my original plan."

Mycroft let him talk. He kept rooting carefully for the razor.

Jim seemed happy to keep up the monologue. "I've been watching you for some time, waiting for an opportunity. I have to hand it to you- the security you used to surround yourself with was impeccable. And then you let brotherly love get to you, and here you are. Your own sentimentality delivered you right into my hands."

_Ah. There it is. Slowly now, Mycroft…._

"When I'm done with you tonight, maybe Mr. Lestrade will be next." He jerked his chin toward Gregory's sleeping form. "I know how much Johnny-boy will need to lean on him after he finds pieces of you everywhere, so he really will have to go. I'll give it a few months, and then the lovely Dr. Sawyer will meet with a nasty accident. Johnny's sister will be next, though I doubt he'll miss that one much. Then perhaps that Angelo who always serves him at that ghastly bistro. Johnny's life will be one long series of goodbyes, until he goes delightfully insane."

Mycroft trembled, every nerve and sinew primed for action. "You psychotic little fuck. It'll never happen."

Jim shook his head in mock regret. "If anyone does manage to stop me, I'm afraid it won't be you. You won't live through the night."

"Go to hell. You're going to bleed for what you did to my brother."

Mycroft yanked out the razor, flicked his wrist to release the blade, and struck. Moriarty instinctively recoiled, but not before the weapon sank into his flesh and tore his cheek from nostril to jaw line.

Seizing his advantage, Mycroft hurtled off the bed and slammed into the bleeding, cursing criminal with enough force to send both of them crashing to the floor. Shaking with hatred, he straddled the shorter man and poised for another strike, but Jim snarled, caught his wrist, and flung him off.

"That was not nice, Mycroft," the Irishman choked as blood collected on his lips. "My plastic surgeon will be repairing this damage for ages. I just might have to sue your estate for the fees."

Before Mycroft could get up, Moriarty grabbed his shoulders, flipped him onto his back, and sat astride him, pinning his arms to the floor. He tried to buck his opponent off, but lacked sufficient strength or leverage.

Despite an obviously painful wound, Moriarty looked pleased. "Once again, you're making it easy for me. Hmmm, how shall I do this? Gun?"

He produced a semi-automatic from an inside pocket, regarded it critically, and finally put it back. "No, too quick. This razor perhaps?"

He picked up the bloodied blade.

"This might do. Let's see if it's still sharp after you used it on my face so rudely."

Mycroft clenched his teeth as the chuckling Irishman drew the razor slowly down his chest. The cut wasn't deep enough to be lethal, but blood pooled in the wandering steel's wake, and it hurt like hell.

"Yes, still sharp. Boring, though. But you know what? I think I have just the thing."

Moriarty reached back into his jacket and extracted a plastic case, which he opened and held down for Mycroft to see. It contained two pharmaceutical bottles and a syringe.

"Pavulon and potassium chloride. I'm sure you've heard of them- they're used during lethal injections in America. The first paralyses respiratory muscles and makes the subject feel like they're suffocating. The second stops the heart."

Suffocation... followed by violent cardiac arrest.

Mycroft knew that his terror was evident when Moriarty lit up like a child at Christmas. "Aha! The slow and painful way it is then. Just try not to get sick all over me when you start choking, all right?" He patted his shirt. "Westwood, you see."

He filled the syringe with the contents of one bottle and squirted a small amount out to ensure that the needle wasn't blocked. Beneath him, Mycroft made one final attempt to escape. He raised his knees and tried to slam them into Jim's back, but all he managed to do was jostle his opponent.

"Still got some fight in you even though you know you can't win? My estimation of you has just improved. That's one thing Sherlock didn't have- courage at the end." Holding the syringe aloft, Moriarty leaned in as close as he could without risking a head butt."You want to know what happened when he went over the ledge, Mycroft? I suppose that now is a good time to tell you. He screamed."

Mycroft spat in his face. Jim didn't bother to wipe it away before continuing.

"He screamed for you, and he screamed like a pig at the butcher's."

The room suddenly exploded with noise. Moriarty dropped the needle, stiffened, and grabbed his right shoulder. Then he shrieked and fell to the side, blood pumping between his fingers.

Mycroft lifted his head and saw Parker standing in the doorway, clutching a smoking pistol in both hands. The old man stared at the writhing, groaning Moriarty with contempt.

"So he screamed, did he, young man? Tell me- did he sound anything like you do right now?"


	18. Chapter 18

While waiting for Anthea and her team to arrive, Mycroft took his time with Jim Moriarty.

He didn't kill the arch-criminal, although he'd spent the last year fantasizing about doing little else. There were times during the 'interrogation' when he was sorely tempted to let the razor slip from a bloody, semi-detached ear down to the throbbing jugular, or snap Jim's neck instead of his fingers. But in the end, duty prevailed over impulse: Moriarty was the apex of a huge criminal network that included terrorists, mob bosses, and munitions smugglers. To kill him without obtaining as much information as possible first was akin to treason in Mycroft's book.

Moriarty knew what he was thinking. Bound to a chair and gleefully defiant despite his injuries, he repeatedly goaded Mycroft with colourful descriptions of Sherlock's last moments, trying to enrage him into going too far. It nearly worked once, but Parker said quietly, "Master Mycroft, don't give him what he wants."

And Mycroft didn't. Moriarty's enthusiastic attempts at Holmes-assisted suicide indicated that he not only had a lot to tell, but given the right 'incentive', he could be made to tell it. The cocky mastermind was willing to die instead of risk that probability.

When Anthea's team arrived an hour later, they swept the manor's perimeter, in the process finding and 'neutralising' the seven armed agents that the consulting criminal had installed in the woods to act as lookouts and potential backup. Then they took Moriarty out to an armoured van, but not before the sneering Irishman fired a parting shot.

"I'd say see you later, Mycroft, but we both know that won't happen. Give my regards to your brother when you meet him again. Reckon it will be soon. Judging by your appearance, a couple of days at most."

While the cleanup crew substituted the bloodied carpet for a new, identical one, Mycroft and his former PA stood by the bedroom window, watching the sun make its slow ascent into the morning sky. Behind them, an agency physician, summoned at Mycroft's request, examined the still-unconscious Lestrade. The man had already checked John Watson over and assured the elder Holmes that he'd wake up with a vicious headache but was otherwise unharmed.

"Be thorough with Mr. Moriarty, Anthea," Mycroft said. "He's a goldmine of useful information."

"Of course, sir."

"He's as crafty as he is dangerous. Level 12 tactics all the way."

"Yes, sir. Shall we proceed with him immediately or await your return to the office?"

Gazing down at her pretty face, Mycroft felt an impulse to hug her. She was a real asset to her country's defense: he fervently hoped that her new boss would realize it too.

She thought that he was here to recover. He decided to tell her the truth. She deserved it. So he took her by the arms –the first time he'd touched her in any manner that was not strictly professional- and began speaking softly.

When he stopped fifteen minutes later, there were tears running down both their faces.

******

By the time Gregory and John woke up with massive alcohol and narcotic-induced hangovers, it was all over. The government team was gone, and Parker was bringing breakfast trays upstairs instead of forcing the groggy duo to face the blinding sunlight in the dining room. Waiting for the paracetamol to kick in, Gregory ate his breakfast in bed. Mycroft snuggled beside him, picking at a plate of scrambled eggs and sausage.

"You all right, Myc? Sounds like you took a nasty tumble in the loo. You should have called for me- I wasn't that drunk."

Mycroft and Parker had agreed not to reveal what had happened during the night. John's ability to handle it emotionally was questionable, and Gregory was a policeman; Mycroft didn't want to cause a crisis of conscience by letting him know that anyone, even Jim Moriarty, could be held without due process and tortured for information. Mycroft's chest wound was a potential obstacle to secrecy, but it hadn't been deep enough to require stitches and he decided to blame it on a fall against the bathroom counter, whose edge was slightly jagged from an unrepaired crack. Parker even sprinkled powdered bleach on the marble to suggest recent cleaning of bloodstains.

"Parker heard me, and came to my rescue." Mycroft marvelled at how it was possible to tell the truth and lie at the same time.

"That man's amazing."

"You have no idea." Mycroft put the plate aside and laid back down. "Let's lie in late today," he murmured. "Because tonight you're taking me dancing."

"You like to dance?"

"I used to, but it's been years and I'd like to try it again. I saw a poster when we were in the village yesterday: some Eighties revival taking place to mark the opening of a new inn."

"All right, but slow dancing only. Promise me. No exerting yourself doing Michael Jackson impersonations."

Mycroft laughed at that. "It's a deal."

Gregory settled back onto the pillows. "Eighties revival, huh? I barely remember that time, myself. Too busy shagging girls and getting myself fit to apply for the Yard. What about you? What do you recall, other than bloody awful hairdos and blokes in Maybelline?"

"Keeping Sherlock out of trouble."

"Even then, eh?"

"Yes."

Gregory drew him close. "I don't know what to make of yesterday, Myc, I really don't. You reckon Sherlock could still be alive?"

Mycroft wasn't sure whether Moriarty's perverse speeches or personal certainty motivated his response. "I don't think so."

Swallowing his grief, he buried his face in his lover's warm chest, determined to ignore the growing tingle in his left arm.


	19. Chapter 19

The Eighties revival was more or less what they expected. A cover band played on a small stage while portable strobe lights flashed over the crowd on the dance floor. Most of the attendees were old enough to remember the original songs, but as the night progressed, younger people began filling the hall.

Gregory and Mycroft sat at a corner table, sipping tepid beer and enjoying the music. They'd invited John to come along, but the doctor was still feeling the effects of the drug-laced brandy and went back to bed after giving Mycroft his daily injections.

"This band's not half bad, Myc," Gregory said.

"Hmm?"

Lestrade laughed. "Million miles away, are we?"

"No, actually around one mile." Mycroft grinned slyly. He was feeling relaxed: the arm tingle had receded, and the beer was mixing pleasantly with the sedative John gave him. "Back at the manor, to be exact. In our bed, if you need me to get more specific."

"Yeah?" Gregory crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward, tongue running along his lips. "And just what were you doing there?"

"What were WE doing, you mean. Well, we were trying a male-male version of a position a Japanese courtesan taught me."

"And were we successful?"

"Extremely." Mycroft delighted in the flush that consumed the policeman's handsome face.

The band concluded Duran Duran's _Hungry Like the Wolf_ and began the Michael Jackson ballad _Human Nature._ Mycroft, who'd always liked the song, stood and grabbed Lestrade's hand.

"Come on, Detective Inspector," he grinned. "Let's have one dance, and then head home to bed."

They found a spot on the tightly packed dance floor and let their bodies meld as they moved in time to the seductive tune. Mycroft moaned when Lestrade's hands slid from his waist into his trousers, not caring who might be watching. Gregory's warm palms caressed his arse, sending the blood rushing to his groin.

"Greg," he teased, "careful now. What will we do if the police see us?"

Lestrade's erection prodded Mycroft's hip. "Flash my badge and tell them that my boss can kick the shit out of theirs."

Mycroft laughed, which felt marvellous. "Oh, God, Greg, I love you."

The other man moved in closer. One of his thighs slipped between Mycroft's, applying a teasing pressure to his swelling crotch. "I want to fuck you so much, Myc."

"You're drunk."

"Bullshit. All I am is horny. And you are too."

Mycroft was- so much so that he knew they'd never make it back to the manor in time. He reluctantly extracted himself from his lover's embrace, grabbed Gregory's hand, and pulled him off the dance floor, toward the exit. Once they were outside, however, Mycroft turned left and dragged Gregory toward the iron steps that snaked up the building wall toward the roof. He remembered following the same route many summers ago, as a hormonal seventeen-year-old, but this time around he was in love as well as lust.

It turned out that two other (heterosexual) couples had had the same idea; four semi-clothed forms writhed on blankets spread across the roof tiles. Unperturbed, Mycroft leaned against the wall of the rooftop shed, fingers digging into Lestrade's hips. Their lips crashed together and tongues wrestled as they divested one another of their trousers. Mycroft almost came on the spot when Gregory clasped his erection with one hand and probed at his tight entrance with the other. There was something exhilaratingly nasty about fucking under the open, starry sky while two other couples watched them and dozens more danced up a storm downstairs.

This was _insanity_. This was _life_. This was _living_. Oh, God, why had he waited so long to let himself go like this?

Mycroft reached into the pocket of his now-rumpled shirt and produced a sachet of lube. Gregory took it, ripped it open, and slicked his fingers. Mycroft grabbed his shoulders, vaulted his body upward, and wrapped his legs around Lestrade's waist. Wedged between the dirty wall and his lover's muscular, sweat-slick chest, he felt gloriously debauched.

He groaned into Lestrade's panting mouth as skilled fingers pushed up inside him, getting him ready. He could feel the other man's throbbing cock brushing against his rear, and it drove him mad with need.

"Gregory," he choked when a nudge against his prostate sent sparks shooting up his spine, "do it now. For God's sake, now!"

The fingers slid out. Strong hands clasped his arse cheeks, supporting him and spreading him open. Mycroft tilted his head back and fixed his eyes on the stars as he was slowly but surely filled. His thighs trembled and his hips shook as pain and pleasure alternately assaulted his nerve endings.

"All right?" Gregory murmured in his ear when he was all the way inside.

"Yes. God, yes." Mycroft threw his arms around Gregory's shoulders and began grinding his hips. Gregory shifted, seeking the right angle to brush his prostate with every thrust. When he found it, the elder Holmes let out a guttural cry and began assaulting his back and shoulders with scratches and bites.

Mycroft's orgasm was so intense that he convulsed, nearly cracking his skull on the wall. He felt hot semen splatter all over his chest, throat and chin. Gregory lapped at it greedily and continued to thrust until his own climax hit. Then he sank to his knees, taking Mycroft with him.

"Oh, my God, that was unbelievable," he said when he could speak. "Are you all right?"

Mycroft clasped his face in his trembling palms. "It was fantastic," he breathed. "Thank you, Greg. For giving me this."

"I'm the one who should be thanking you."

Mycroft kissed his ear. "We're both grateful- let's leave it at that. Now take me home with you."

******

Mycroft believed that milestones in the cycle of life always took place at night. Perhaps it was because of the time he crawled into his parent's bed, quivering from a nightmare, only to be awoken soon afterward by his mother grabbing his father's arm and gasping with mixed pain and anticipation, "Siger, it's happening now."

Hours later, she gave birth to Sherlock.

When Mycroft and Gregory arrived home, John and Parker were asleep, so they let themselves into the house quietly and went straight to bed. Mycroft was dizzy and slightly short of breath, but he put it down to fatigue and exhilaration from the mindless joy he had experienced on the hall roof. Nestled in Gregory's arms, he relaxed enough to fall asleep.

Pain awoke him during the predawn hours. Crushing pain that radiated from his chest, numbing his arm and making every breath an effort. Fighting down panic, he reached out and jostled Gregory with his right hand.

"Myc!" Lestrade sat up and turned on the bedside light. When he saw Mycroft's face, which was contorted in agony, his eyes widened. "Oh, Jesus Christ! John! JOHN!"

Mycroft's jaw clenched in response to tightening in his throat, but as he clutched Gregory's hand he still managed to speak.

"Gregory, it's happening now."

Those were his mother's words, spoken thirty-five years ago as a new life was about to begin. Now they were heralding another life's end.


	20. Chapter 20

For Mycroft, time was now reduced to a series of barely-lucid moments.

John ran into the room, carrying his kit. Gregory cradled Mycroft while Parker held his hand and spoke in soothing tones. Mycroft could not make out everything he said, but the beloved voice kept him calm as John placed an oxygen mask on his face and injected him with something that relaxed his throat and chest and let him breathe more easily. A second shot reduced the pain enough to let him speak without wheezing.

Looking down at John, who was silently weeping while listening to his erratic heartbeat, he said, "It's time, isn't it?"

John put his stethoscope away and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "Yes," he whispered.

"Please, God, no," Gregory choked. Mycroft felt warm tears splashing onto his shoulder. "Not yet, please. We're supposed to have a few more days, we're supposed-"

He couldn't continue.

Mycroft wanted to comfort him, but didn't have the energy to do more than whisper, "I love you."

Lestrade's hold tightened. "I love you too, Myc."

John squeezed his hand and said, "I'll be right back, okay?"

After he left the room, Mycroft gazed up at his lover. Gregory's face was still bruised from the brawl, and his kind eyes were bloodshot and wet, but Mycroft thought that he'd never seen anything –anyone- more beautiful. Their stares comingled, eyes communicating what voices couldn't, until John returned, carrying an IV drip bag.

"This will make you comfortable," he said hoarsely. Mycroft knew what he really meant: the solution it contained would give him a painless death. John hung the bag and its tubing from an old picture nail above the bed before leaning down and removing the oxygen mask.

Mycroft extended his arm without being asked. John visibly struggled to contain himself as he rolled up Mycroft's pajama sleeve and tied a length of rubber tubing around his bicep to make the veins stand out. When he smelled the alcohol wipe and felt the needle slide into his elbow, Mycroft pressed his face to Gregory's chest, taking comfort in the familiar heat.

"John, please call Anthea when this is over," he murmured as the doctor secured the needle with tape. "She'll ensure that you don't experience any backlash from the authorities for...assisting me like this."

"I don't care about that."

'I do. Please start it now. I'm ready."

When he felt the gentle burn of the medication in his veins, Mycroft turned away from Lestrade's chest and surveyed the three men who sat on the bed. He knew they were holding themselves together for his sake, and could sense the mass agony that would erupt afterward.

"I did a stupid thing, but in retrospect, it's turned out to be a blessing. I found love at last-" he smiled at Gregory "-and lived more in these last few days than I did in years. I'm truly grateful. And I love all of you more than I'm capable of saying." He paused. "I am so sorry for any pain this will cause you."

He would have continued, but his mouth went slack and he couldn't form the words. John placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "It's all fine, Mycroft. You don't need to say more. We know."

"We love you too, sir." Parker kept hold of his hand.

Mycroft nodded. His movements were uncoordinated now, but he still managed to shift his gaze to Gregory, who smiled through the tears and said, "Flowers forever, Myc. I promise."

As Mycroft's head sagged, prompting Gregory to hold him tighter, he decided that he really was fortunate. The way he'd lived, the risks he'd taken: the laws of probability dictated that he should have met his end from an assassin's bullet or act of terrorism. Instead, he was lying in his childhood bed, warm and now comfortable, surrounded by the people who loved him….

Downstairs, the front door slammed open. Footsteps thundered up the staircase, so loudly that even his fading hearing detected them.

"STOP!"

Mycroft blinked. His eyes had been closing, but that deep voice- which he hadn't expected to hear again until this was all over- pulled him back from the edge of unconsciousness. As he struggled to focus, activity exploded all around him.

"Clamp off that IV. Now!"

"….the fucking hell…."

"….explain later…."

Just before he yielded to the darkness, Mycroft heard John exclaim, "….fuck's going on…. _Sherlock_."


	21. Chapter 21

Mycroft approached the light, drawn to its pulsing brilliance like a satellite caught in a gravity beam. When the effulgence surrounded him he waited, wondering what came next. Would his parents materialize to offer guidance? Would Sherlock?

He wasn't expecting what actually did happen- a sudden and violent sinking sensation, like he was in an elevator whose cable had suddenly snapped. The velocity was dizzying, and the further he dropped the more he hurt, until he was ready to beg for mercy from anyone capable of granting it.

He jerked awake, and discovered that he was lying in the bed where he was supposed to have breathed his last.

An electric blanket covered him, its muted warmth combating the chill in his limbs. As more physical sensations started filtering through his fogged brain, he detected oxygen cannulae in his nostrils and an IV drip secured to his hand. Someone or something was in the bed with him; he could feel a warm mass against his right side and a slight dip in the mattress from the extra weight. Turning his head on the pillow, Mycroft saw Gregory Lestrade sleeping beside him, one hand clasping his.

He was alive! But how?

Confusion unhinged him, despite the heavy chemical cocktail coursing through his system. A distressed sob broke through his dry lips, waking Lestrade immediately.

"Myc!" he exclaimed. Seeing the semi-hysterical expression on Mycroft's face, he carefully embraced him and drew him close. "It's okay, love. You're okay."

Mycroft tried to touch him, tried to speak, but his mouth and limbs refused to obey him. Gregory stroked his cheek.

"Don't exert yourself- you're still weak. You probably shouldn't even be awake yet. John and your office's doctors have spent the last three days getting that poison out of your system."

Mycroft's lips formed the question although no sound issued. Poison?

"Well, not literal poison, although it was just as damaging. Damn that selfish bastard." Lestrade's mouth briefly turned into a grim line. Mycroft wanted to ask what he was talking about, but weariness washed over him. When his lids began flickering, Gregory kissed his forehead. "Go back to sleep, Myc. You're going to be all right, and when you wake up, I'll still be here, and with some unbelievable news for you."

Mycroft didn't want to go under again, worried that these moments with Gregory were a dying hallucination that would end when he yielded. But he was powerless to resist. Just before he faded away, he heard Gregory snarl at someone, "He's going back to sleep. Now get away before I break your neck."

******

Mycroft's life during the next few days was a series of one-shots.

Hands shifting him in bed.

"… temperature almost normal…."

John and others checking the tubes running into his body.

"… regained consciousness again?"

"Not entirely."

Once he heard Gregory snap, "Don't touch him- you've done enough!"

Lestrade was clearly furious at someone. But who? And why? Mycroft's mind, beginning to rebel against the cottony numbness, tackled the puzzle during his lucid moments. He could only concentrate for seconds at a time, but gradually deduced that the person, who never spoke in his presence, smelled of chemicals and tea and thrummed with nervous energy that he could feel through the drugs and blankets. It was hauntingly familiar somehow...

He finally understood on that sunny afternoon when he woke up and, once again, detected another person lying beside him on the bed. Lighter than Gregory, judging from the minimal dip in the mattress, but taller than John or Parker: their entire length mirrored his own.

Mycroft looked over.

Sherlock stared back.


	22. Chapter 22

Despite his fatigue, he could deduce that Sherlock's last few days had not been pleasant ones.

His younger brother's left eye was swollen, apparently from a punch thrown by a right-handed person with broad knuckles. Sherlock's own hands were free of scrapes or bruises, indicating that he hadn't fought back. He was either fond of the assailant or felt he deserved the beating. Probably both.

During those hellish weeks after Reichenbach, Mycroft had coped by fantasizing that Sherlock would show up on his doorstep one day, gaunt and bedraggled from constant hiding. He'd made himself smile by imagining how they'd stare at each other before he scolded Sherlock for being thoughtless and Sherlock, observing his diminishing waistline, congratulated him for finally joining Weight Watchers. They wouldn't hug- affectionate physical contact had never been a family tradition. But their joy and relief at being reunited would be as obvious as the Holmes brothers were capable of making it.

Now, instead of feeling overjoyed and offering a gentle rebuke, Mycroft mapped his brother, reading months of difficult living into his face and body. As his eyes lingered on a poorly healed wrist fracture, he presumed that the drugs were dulling his emotional responses. Under ordinary circumstances, Sherlock's tired and haunted expression would have sent his protective instincts into overdrive.

"How?" was all he could say. Even that one word tortured his dry throat.

"Long story." Sherlock sat up carefully and poured water from a bedside pitcher into a cup. "Can you drink something?"

Mycroft nodded and tried to rise onto his elbows. The room spun and his arms wobbled, forcing him to sink back onto the pillow.

Sherlock put a straw into the cup and lifted Mycroft's head so he could take a few sips without choking.

"I had no idea that the experiment would take the course it did," he said. "I'm glad I arrived before it turned fatal for you."

Mycroft's lips pulled sharply away from the straw. "Experiment?"

Seeing that his brother wasn't going to drink more, Sherlock put the cup aside and sat down. "I was watching you," he said. "I saw what your life was turning into, although you did surprise me somewhat by trying to kill yourself. But I suppose that's what happens when you let yourself feel too much."

A pause. Then: "Mycroft, I'm… _pleased_ … that you're awake. Everyone has been worried."

"Sherlock," Mycroft rasped, clasping the other man's wrist with what little strength he possessed, "why did you stay away?"

"It was necessary. _Everything_ was."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed.

"No one seems to like that explanation," Sherlock said. "Lestrade actually hit me." He pointed to his face. "And John waited before interfering."

"Greg did that to you?"

"Yes, but not because I stayed away for so long. Once he calmed down, he understood my reasons. Even John did." His face and voice softened imperceptibly. "He punched me because I let the experiment get out of hand."

Warmth blossomed in Mycroft's chest, attached to some emotion he was too medicated to properly feel. He maintained his grip on Sherlock's wrist. "Tell me everything."

"What you need to know first is that Moriarty is alive. He-" Sherlock hesitated. "You already know, don't you? You don't look surprised. Has he come after you already?"

"Yes, and failed. Continue."

"But he could try again-"

"No," Mycroft said evenly, "he couldn't."

Sherlock knew what that tone and those ambiguous words signified. He regarded his older brother with the Holmes version of awe. "You're sure you've stopped him?"

"I've heard nothing to contradict that belief."

"When?"

"Night before last."

"God, that's the one night I wasn't here. I had to go to Harrogate for-"

"You've been around here since I arrived."

"Yes."

"And John really did see you in the dining room that morning."

Sherlock swallowed and stared at the floor. "Yes. Mycroft, it was _terrible._ John's face- I wanted to abandon the experiment on the spot and just hold him again. But I couldn't let myself forget why I was here."

"Tell me everything," Mycroft said again.

Sherlock described how Moriarty had thrown him off the ledge during their struggle at Reichenbach. A low-hanging tree branch broke his fall, a miracle hidden from Moriarty's view by the waterfall's thick spray. Despite a fractured wrist, he made it into the forest, stole a first aid kit from a tourist station and clothes from an unattended suitcase, and returned to London, where he went into hiding.

"It was because of you that I didn't come back." When Mycroft opened his mouth, Sherlock held up his hand. "Before he threw me, Moriarty said that he was going after you next. Said if I was this much fun to play with, my brother the British government would be an even more enjoyable challenge. I wanted to prevent that. So I watched your house, which was the only place where you were comparatively unprotected. You should really do something about that, Mycroft. Moriarty could make short work of that ridiculous security system."

"Sherlock." Mycroft wanted to weep at the flawed reasoning and the agony it had caused. "You could have come back and warned me. Security at my house would have been tightened."

"No. Moriarty thought I was dead, don't you see?" Sherlock was alight with frustration and excitement. "When he finally moved on you at home- the logical place- I could have protected you AND stopped him. He wouldn't have been expecting it."

Mycroft shook his head. His younger brother could use logic to make brilliant deductions or horrendous mistakes. And why hadn't Sherlock taken John's suffering into account before he decided on this course of action? The man had been nearly catatonic after the funeral service. "And what would you have done all by yourself when he showed up with his minions?"

"I wouldn't have been alone. You would have been there too. We could have handled it."

"I'm afraid you overestimate both our abilities." Mycroft felt perversely grateful for how things had actually turned out, even if he was still living on borrowed time. If Sherlock's plan had played out, both of them would have been killed.

"What I did was _underestimate_ something. Your ability to carry on without me."

Sherlock ran a hand across his face, hissing as he accidentally brushed his sore eye, and settled down on the mattress again. Without thinking, Mycroft put an arm around him and drew him close, and Sherlock allowed it. They hadn't done this since Sherlock, at age six, stopped being afraid of monsters at night and became eager to catch one so he could dissect it.

"Why, Mycroft?" he murmured against his brother's shoulder. "Was I really that important?"

"You were everything."

"I was outside your house when Lestrade and your PA showed up, followed by an ambulance. When I realized what you'd done, and why, I decided to perform an experiment. If it worked, you'd never do anything so foolish again."

"I want to know what this experiment consisted of, and why Greg hit you because of it."

"Promise me you won't hit me too. I need at least one good eye."

"Sherlock, the way I feel, you'd be able to run halfway to London before I could even raise my fist. Now talk." Mycroft smiled in spite of his exasperation. The sensations rollicking inside him were now clear enough to have labels: relief, amazement, and affection. "Don't make me order you."

Sherlock grinned too. "I'd like to see you try."

Then he began to talk.


	23. Chapter 23

"You surprised me, Mycroft. On one hand you're just like me- you see and understand things that most of the human race is too stupid to get. But on the other, you… you just _care_ too much."

When he grimaced, Mycroft said, "You make it sound like I tie myself to trees to save the rainforest. The only one capable of driving me to extremes has always been you."

"It shouldn't be _anyone_. Although I don't understand grief on an emotional level, I accept that people undergo it when they lose someone they care about. I knew that you'd grieve if you thought I was dead. I sent Lestrade an e-mail before John and I left for Switzerland. I told him how dangerous the case was, and that I might not make it back alive. Should that come to pass, I wanted him to be there for you. He's a good man, Mycroft. He helped me in the past."

"He told me about that e-mail. You might have introduced us first, though."

"Didn't he speak to you at the funeral?"

Mycroft swallowed heavily. "He says he did. But I don't recall. Sherlock, I was on so many tablets so I could function. There's a lot about those days that I don't remember. Scotland Yard did come to me afterward with problematic cases, but Mr. Dimmock was their representative."

Sherlock shook his head. "Dimmock's a twat. And tablets? Dear God, you really let yourself go."

"You're one to talk." Mycroft didn't need to elaborate. Sherlock knew what he meant: the cocaine binges and other self-destructive behavior.

"Do you want to hear me out?" the younger Holmes scowled. "Or shall we just spend the rest of the afternoon trying to one-up each other on the pathetic scale?"

"Go on then."

"When you tried to kill yourself, it was painfully obvious that you needed an incentive to stop obsessing about me and focus on what YOU want and need. I've read about people diagnosed with terminal diseases finally enjoying life because they knew there was no time to waste. It was an interesting theory, and I wanted to see if it would work for you."

"It did," Mycroft said. "Sherlock, Greg and I-"

"Are in love? Painfully obvious. And I'm pleased to see it. Watching you shag was not the most thrilling experience, though." He wrinkled his nose. "The word 'rabbits' comes to mind."

"You've SEEN us?"

"Ugh. Yes. When you were brought here from Bart's, I knew that Moriarty would make his move. So I stood watch in the forest. My telescope was focused on your bedroom window at night. In fact, that's how I was able to stop you from being put to sleep like a dog. John and Lestrade didn't realize it was all an experiment."

"What experiment? Sherlock, my heart-"

"Is perfectly fine."

Mycroft went rigid. "What are you talking about? John saw the cardiac scans-"

"Those weren't yours." Sherlock looked away. "I used Mike Stamford's passcode to access the scans and replace yours with those of a terminally ill patient who'd already died."

"But I've had at least two heart attacks!"

"That morning when John saw me, I swapped some of your vasopressor dosages with a drug that replicates heart attack symptoms. There'd be no set schedule, but you'd occasionally get the chest pain, shortness of breath, and other complications. Nonlethal of course, but convincing enough to make you think you were dying."

When Mycroft stared at him, unblinking, Sherlock grabbed his shoulder and shook it. "Please understand- it was all for you! And the experiment worked, didn't it! You let yourself go, let yourself meet and fall in love with someone. You've now got something to live for besides me!"

Mycroft turned away from his brother and stared around the room. He felt numb. Beside him, Sherlock tensed, as if anticipating a second blow.

_I'm not dying. I'm going to live._

Gregory's voice broke the heavy silence. "What you did was nearly kill him, Sherlock. Get out of here. Now."


	24. Chapter 24

Sherlock tensed, and Mycroft's arm around him automatically tightened. "Greg... please. It's all right."

"No, it isn't, Myc. Sherlock, leave. I mean it."

The younger Holmes looked plaintively at his brother. "Do I have to?"

"No. But I am livid at you beyond all telling."

Sherlock glared at Lestrade with mingled fear and defiance before lifting the blanket, crawling under it, and pulling it over his head. It was such a childish gesture that for a moment, Mycroft's lips twitched in amusement.

His emotions waged a civil war within him, and right now anger was winning. By letting them think he was dead for so long, Sherlock had put John and Mycroft through hell. Then he made his brother the subject of a dangerous experiment, and now talked like he deserved a knighthood for it. Mycroft didn't know what John's reaction had been, but he wanted to scream at Sherlock, shake him, even throw him out the window if he'd had the strength.

Yet all along, Sherlock had meant well. He was simply incapable of factoring emotional responses into his plans. The way he saw it, he'd come home to John after the Moriarty threat had passed, tell Mycroft about his second chance at life once the elder Holmes had finally acquired a zest for living, and all would be well again.

Sherlock had no concept of reality. Just like a child. Being angry at him wouldn't accomplish anything.

_Oh, God, brother, what am I going to do with you? Except worry about you, constantly?_

Lestrade, who now hovered over the bed, frowned at Sherlock's presence, but his dark eyes surveyed the elder Holmes with excitement, relief and affection. Like Mycroft, he appeared to be a maelstrom of feeling at that moment.

"Greg," Mycroft whispered, extending his hand shakily, "I'm going to live." The anger and frustration vanished beneath waves of love and joy.

"I know, Myc." Lestrade kissed his fingers and sat on the edge of the bed. "It's incredible."

Sherlock peered out cautiously from under the blanket. "Does this mean everyone's happy now, and you'll all stop treating me like a leper?"

"Sherlock, do you even understand why everyone is upset, especially John?" Gregory demanded. "His heart's been broken. Your brother could have died. You can apply all the logic you want to your reasoning, but it doesn't change any of that."

"I thought I explained myself thoroughly."

"Gregory," Mycroft sighed, "he was only doing what he thought was right."

"It WAS right," Sherlock argued. A dark look from Lestrade sent him beneath the covers again.

"I'll say one thing. If he hadn't pulled this rubbish, I –we- wouldn't have this." Gregory touched Mycroft's cheek with the back of his hand. "How are you feeling, Myc?"

"Overwhelmed. So many impulses are running through my head. I want to hit my tactless brother." A glare at the blanket-covered shape at his side. "I want to kiss you. As soon as I'm able I want to go dancing with you until all hours, make love to you-"

"Please," Sherlock groaned.

"Master Mycroft!" Parker appeared in the doorway, his kindly face alight. He hurried into the room and touched Mycroft's shoulder. "Sir, it's so good to see you awake. And to know what you're going to be with us for a long time yet."

"That I am. Thank you, Parker... for everything."

"Of course. I'll let Dr. Watson know that you're awake and put some chicken broth on for you. Would anyone else like tea?"

"Please," said Lestrade.

Sherlock's head reappeared. He looked over his shoulder at the butler with mild contempt. "Coffee. Black. Two sugars. And not as tepid as this morning. That was horrendous. It's a simple task- surely at your age you can get it right."

Gregory and Mycroft simultaneously opened their mouths to chastise him, but Parker was faster. He picked up a tortoiseshell hairbrush from the dresser and, with a strength that belied his years, brought it crashing down on Sherlock's blanket-covered arse. When the younger man bellowed, Parker said calmly, "Indeed, Master Sherlock, I can do many things right."

He replaced the brush and glided out with his usual poise. Sherlock threw the covers off and growled, "Mycroft, he assaulted me! He needs to be sacked."

"Actually," Lestrade said, the corners of his mouth twitching, "I think he just earned himself a raise."

He tossed his head back and laughed heartily. Mycroft lacked the strength to follow suit, but managed to grin broadly and hold Gregory's hand even tighter. Sherlock scowled before settling back down on the mattress, this time resting his arm across his brother's waist.

"I'm glad you're going to be fine," he murmured against the pillow. It wasn't exactly an apology, but Mycroft would take it anyway.


	25. Chapter 25

Mycroft saw right away that Sherlock and John's relationship had suffered serious damage.

When Sherlock stepped out to use the toilet, Gregory confided that he was sleeping alone in a guestroom at the end of the hall, and not with John.

"John understood Sherlock's explanations for what they were: well-intentioned idiocy. But he's angry, Myc. And hurt. He just pushes Sherlock away, doesn't want to talk it out. You'll see what I mean."

Mycroft wasn't surprised, given the circumstances. But when John, summoned by Parker, came upstairs and Sherlock rejoined them a moment later, it was painfully obvious that Lestrade had been understating things.

John smiled as he approached, but Mycroft wasn't fooled. The normally fastidious doctor had faint tea stains on his jumper and bluish shadows underscored his eyes, indicating that his hands had been shaking during his last tea break and he was sleeping poorly.

Mycroft felt ashamed. _What Sherlock and I put him through..._

"Hey." John sat on the mattress edge and checked his pulse. "You've had a rough few days."

"So I've been told."

"Any pain?"

"Some aches in my joints, but otherwise no."

Sherlock, watching John anxiously, came up and sat near his brother's head, his knee inches from John's hand. The doctor flinched, stood up quickly, and stepped back.

"Your pulse is a little weak, but it's to be expected. The drug used to replicate the chest pains doesn't pass through the system as easily as some others," he said, not once looking in his former lover's direction. "You'll probably experience the odd heart muscle contraction for at least a week. But it will be nothing like what you suffered before."

"Better not be," Lestrade said.

Gregory's anger toward Sherlock was gradually receding now that Mycroft was awake, but John's deliberate indifference made the tension in the bedroom thick enough to stab. Sherlock stared at the floor, feigning interest in the carpet pattern. His face gave away nothing, but Mycroft detected the hurt that bubbled beneath the surface.

"Once you're able to eat solid food, I'll take the IV out, but bed rest until further notice. I mean it."

"I know you do. Thank you, John."

"Right, then. Greg, did you tell him about the security arrangements?"

"Not yet."

Mycroft's brow furrowed. "Security arrangements?"

"Myc, Moriarty is alive," Gregory said. "He survived too. Well, if you want to get technical, he never fell."

"I know. Sherlock told me."

During a private moment, Mycroft had quickly told his brother about the arch-criminal's botched assassination attempt and subsequent capture. The younger Holmes agreed to keep the details secret–all John and Gregory needed was one more shock- but insisted on being kept informed of all developments. Mycroft understood: Sherlock wouldn't be able to relax his vigilance until Moriarty's execution was confirmed.

"Then you're aware that he's after you now." John peered out the window. "I called Anthea and let her know. She sent down a security detail to patrol the forest 24-7 until further notice."

"Excellent. Thank her for me."

Mycroft silently praised his PA's efficiency and discretion. Just before her team took Moriarty away, he'd ordered the man's containment to be classified Level 12. Translated: all details concerning his arrest, interrogation, and future execution would be confined to upper-echelon agency personnel. Since John and Lestrade could never be told that the monster was no longer lurking in their closet, Anthea had dutifully responded to their concerns with armed guards.

Just then, Parker rang the bell for dinner. John and Gregory went downstairs after Mycroft assured them that he wanted to rest. Sherlock remained on the bed, staring silently out the window.

Mycroft touched his hand. "John will forgive you, but you have to be patient. You hurt him terribly."

"No. I don't think he will." Mycroft had never seen him so depressed. The self-righteous arrogance that earned him a smack from Parker had vaporized when John came into the room, to be replaced by anxiety and sadness. Sherlock wasn't as heartless as he liked to believe. "He doesn't talk to me unless it's absolutely unavoidable. Why doesn't he understand, Mycroft? I didn't do this to hurt him."

"I know that. But John has trust issues. He trusted you. What you did shattered his sense of security. You have to give it time."

Sherlock's lips tightened. "We've already been apart for almost a year. Why doesn't he just punch me like Lestrade did, and then forgive me? It would hurt a lot less."

Mycroft didn't know what to say. The damage had been done, and like it or not, Sherlock would have to wait for John to make the first move toward reconciliation. If he ever did.

He held out his arms, and Sherlock folded into them. Neither spoke; Mycroft just stroked his brother's curls and prayed that it would all end well.

They remained in that pose until they heard Gregory coming up the stairs with a tray bearing a light meal. When he came in, Sherlock got up, saying that he needed to fetch something from his room. From Mycroft's vantage point, he could see his brother walk down the hallway, only to encounter John at the top of the staircase.

The doctor lowered his eyes and muttered, "Parker left you a plate if you're hungry." Sherlock opened his mouth, but John walked briskly into his bedroom and shut the door. Sherlock bit his lip before continuing down the passage, his normally erect figure slightly bent in desolation.

Seeing Mycroft's concern, Gregory sighed. "Yeah, like I said, John's not taken this well at all. And I can't say as I blame him. What Sherlock did was foolish and thoughtless."

"I know." Mycroft fiddled with the IV tubing. "I feel for Sherlock all the same. He really did not intend to hurt any of us."

"But he did, Myc. And he has to live with the consequences."

******

The beef broth that Parker had prepared was warm and rich, and by the time the bowl was empty Mycroft just wanted to sleep. He nodded off, only to be awakened what felt like minutes afterward by a hand touching his arm.

The room was dark, and Sherlock was leaning over him, his sad, angular face clearly delineated in the moonlight. Mycroft glanced at the bedside clock: 3:00 a.m.

"Sherlock," he whispered, so as not to awaken Gregory. "What is it?"

"I'm coming to say goodbye, Mycroft," his brother replied. "I'm going away again, and this time I'm not coming back."


	26. Chapter 26

"What?" Mycroft tried to sit up, but his weak muscles wouldn't let him. "Sherlock, you can't be serious."

"You've seen how John is around me. He doesn't love me any more."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. Look, I'll stay in touch with you, I promise. But I can't face another day of John acting like I don't exist. I'm going back to London, maybe kip on Molly's sofa until I get a flat."

Sherlock squeezed his arm and stood up straight, hiking a rucksack over his shoulder. Mycroft grabbed his shirt hem.

"No," he said, raising his voice above a whisper. "Don't make another mistake."

His plea awoke Lestrade, who sat up and turned the bedside lamp on. One look at Sherlock- the haunted expression, overcoat, and packed bag- told him everything he needed to know.

"Right- this bullshit has gone on long enough." He jumped off the bed, strode over to Sherlock, and grabbed his arm. "You're coming with me."

"Greg-" Mycroft tried again to rise. Lestrade raised a restraining hand. "It's okay, Myc," he said in more controlled tones. "No one will get hurt. At least not by me."

"Let go!" Sherlock seethed. His bag slipped out of his grasp and thudded on the floor. "What the fuck are you playing at?"

"I'm not playing." Looking comically underdressed in his pale blue boxers, Gregory bent over, hefted Sherlock over one shoulder, and carried him, kicking and protesting, out into the hall. He stopped in front of John's bedroom door, which opened before he could knock.

John stared at the scene before him. "What's going on?"

Mycroft watched as Gregory pushed past him into the room, still carrying his squirming, yelling burden.

"John, this ends tonight. I know you two love still love each other. Now either forgive this reckless brat or tell him it's over so he doesn't have to sneak off in the middle of the night."

"What?"

Mycroft heard a soft thump as something was thrown onto the bed.

"He was getting ready to run away, John."

A loud exhale. Then: "Goddamn it, Sherlock. Fine, Greg. Thanks."

Lestrade emerged into the hall, closing the door behind him. He climbed back into bed with Mycroft, who said, "I'm not so sure that was wise."

"Me neither. But enough's enough. I'm on John's side in this matter, but maybe Sherlock just needs a little reassurance so he doesn't muck things up further."

"I think you might be right." Mycroft rested his cheek against Greg's shoulder. "Perverse as this sounds, I'm grateful for what he did, to me at least. If I hadn't thought I was dying, I wouldn't have given myself permission to have fun, to fall in love with you."

Lestrade's fingers played with his hair. "Don't go telling him that- God knows what he'd do the next time he decided your life needed improving."

He shut the bedside light off and they lapsed into silence, straining to listen through the wall that separated their room from John's.

Sherlock's voice was the first one they heard clearly. "John, I'm so sorry, please believe me."

"I know you thought you were protecting Mycroft. But I went through months of hell thinking you were dead, gone from me forever, and when I realize how it could have been avoided... Sherlock, I do love you. But getting shot in Afghanistan was nothing compared to the pain you put me through. You can't expect me to forget it that easily."

"I don't. But how are we supposed to get past this when you won't even talk to me?"

"We're talking now."

"Yes. Yes, we are."

John's footsteps paced the floorboards. "Was Greg right? You were going to run off tonight?"

"Actually, it's this morning-"

"Answer the question, Sherlock."

"Yes. I was. Because I couldn't take our ...estrangement... any more. My presence also makes you unhappy. It seemed the logical thing to do."

A sigh. "I suppose I can't fault you for thinking that way. I have been hard on you. But that kind of secretive behavior has to stop. We're a couple, we're supposed to be open with- wait, what are you doing?"

Mycroft and Lestrade held their breath, straining to listen.

Sherlock's voice was semi-muffled: was he hugging John? "You just said we're a couple."

A pause. "Yes, I did. And we are. But it's going to take time for the trust to rebuild."

"You have to show me what to do, John. Please. I- I can't navigate these fields like you can."

Mycroft felt for his brother. Sherlock could hack into missile defense systems, create bio-weapons in his bathtub, and solve in ten seconds a case that puzzled Scotland Yard for ten months. But the emotional intricacies of a relationship stymied him.

"I will. Now stop crying, okay?"

Gregory raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock? Crying? Bloody hell."

"He does have a heart," Mycroft gently rebuked.

Sherlock sniffled. "Can't. I've missed you."

"Come on. Let's lie down. We'll talk more in the morning."

Two sets of footsteps moved across the floor, one heavier than the other: John must have been supporting Sherlock's weight. The mattress creaked, and the blankets rustled. Then silence.

Mycroft knew that his younger brother would not sleep; if he'd been distressed to the point of tears, Sherlock would be lying awake for hours, processing the alien feeling and trying to figure out what he'd have to do to mend the relationship.

"I think they're going to be all right." Gregory rolled onto his side and gathered Mycroft into his arms. "Bit of a risk, dragging Sherlock into John's room at three-thirty in the morning, but apparently it's what they needed to move forward."

"Mm." Mycroft felt his heart throb, but from relief and love, not pain. He was soon asleep.


	27. Chapter 27

As Mycroft recovered, so did the formidable unit that was Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

Progress was slow at first. Mycroft took regular walks but sometimes stumbled and experienced head and chest pain, all lingering effects of prolonged unconsciousness and narcotic hangovers. Sherlock and John sat together at meals, talked often, and platonically shared a bed at night, but John gently rebuffed all physical intimacy aside from the occasional hug.

"It takes time to heal," Lestrade said one night as he and Mycroft watched them take a twilight stroll down the driveway.

"At least John has given Sherlock reason to hope. That's so important."

They turned away from the window, walked though the house, and exited the double doors that opened onto the massive back grounds. Parker had ordered the pool to be cleaned and refilled after everyone decided to spend the remainder of the summer at the manor. The pool technicians had completed their work earlier that day, and now Mycroft gazed longingly at the backlit blue water.

"Humid tonight." Gregory wiped his forehead. "Enough to make you want to go without clothes."

"I agree." Mycroft began unbuttoning his shirt.

"What are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?" He tossed the shirt onto a deck chair and unfastened his trousers. As he slid them off, he added, "You'd better jump in after me, in case I become weak and need rescuing."

Without waiting for a response, he pulled his boxers off, tossed them at Gregory's head, and dove gracefully into the water. When his head broke the surface, he simpered, "Oh, Mr. Policeman, help me, I'm drowning."

Lestrade put his hands on his hips and smirked. "Yes, you are. I reckon it's not anything some mouth to mouth couldn't fix, though."

"Definitely mouth to something." Mycroft paddled to the pool's edge, rested his forearms on the concrete, and grinned. "Coming to save me?"

"Of course. It's my duty."

Gregory dropped to his knees, undid his trousers, and took out his cock with one hand while grasping the back of his lover's head with the other. Mycroft greedily slid the entire rigid length into his mouth.

"Oh, Christ," Gregory groaned.

When his nose was buried in Lestrade's pubic hair, Mycroft relaxed his throat and hummed. The vibrations made the other man whimper and hips shoot forward so suddenly that he was nearly pushed back into the water. Grasping Gregory's thighs for leverage, Mycroft slowly, teasingly pulled back. He flicked his tongue across the weeping tip, and licked the bottom and sides of Lestrade's erection with broad strokes before swallowing him again.

"Myc, oh God, oh God. Whoever taught you to do it like this… they're a bloody genius."

 _I'm sure they are_ , Mycroft thought. _They eventually became Prime Minister. But you don't really need to know that, do you?_

He drew his head back, relishing Gregory's death grip on his hair, and focused all his attention on the wet, sensitive head. He covered it with moist, sloppy kisses and wagged his tongue across the slit, enjoying Lestrade's frantic responses. Glancing up, he saw that Gregory's mouth was open and uttering that stream of obscenities that always signaled imminent orgasm.

"Myc, oh fuck, fuck…. Suck me hard…..shit…. so fucking good…."

Mycroft was widening his throat for the home stretch when they heard footsteps moving through the house. Startled, he jerked away and Gregory jumped to his feet, tucking himself in and zipping up. Silent except for their hammering hearts and harsh breathing, they listened.

Sherlock's voice floated out the dining room window. "Thank you for that, John. It's made me think. It really has."

"I know, Sherlock. I have to tell you, now that we're inside, that I've been thinking too. Before I continue, do you know where Greg and Mycroft are?"

"Out walking like we were, probably. Go on."

"Okay." John paused briefly before continuing. "Look, it's going to take a lot of work for us to get back to the way we were, and all things considered, I'm not sure I want to bother."

Mycroft tensed, preparing to leap out of the pool and prevent a disaster. Gregory cocked his head and frowned.

Sherlock exhaled slowly. "You mean-"

"I mean-" John's voice quivered "-that I don't want to go through any more apologies, soul-searching and air-clearing. I want you kiss me right the fuck now. Then I want us to go upstairs and make up for lost time."

Sherlock let out a grateful sob just before weeping and soft kissing sounds commenced. When unsteady footsteps headed for the stairs, Gregory let out the breath he'd been holding, crouched, and touched Mycroft's arm.

"You hear all that, Myc?"

"Yes." Mycroft was so elated that he wanted to scream, weep, and shag his lover senseless. Deciding on the most appealing option, he climbed out of the pool, grabbed Lestrade's hand, and said, "Let's finish what we started."

He pulled Gregory into the house, not caring that he was naked and dripping water onto the Persian rugs and polished floorboards. They ascended the stairs, the thick carpeting muffling their steps. As they passed John's room on the way to theirs, the door was open wide enough for them to see John sitting on the bed, unbuttoning his shirt and staring in wonder and lust as Sherlock slowly disrobed in front of him.

Hearing movement in the hall, John glanced in their direction. One look at Mycroft's nudity and Lestrade's aroused expression told him everything he needed to know. He smiled quickly before focusing again on Sherlock, whose lean, pale body resembled a marble statue in the half-light.

Inside their room, Mycroft and Gregory threw their arms around each other and indulged in a prolonged, sensuous kiss. Knowing that they now had a lifetime together instead of two weeks, they intended to make love all night, without grief or anxiety or fear.

Lestrade pressed Mycroft against the wall. "Don't move," he whispered. "I want to touch you, and all I want you to do is enjoy it." He grasped his lover's wrists and guided them behind his back. Mycroft complied, linking his trembling fingers together to keep them in place.

Gregory applied wet, open-mouthed kisses to Mycroft's neck before settling on a sensitive spot just below his jaw and sucking hard enough to leave a bruise. His large, warm hand closed over Mycroft's erection and started stroking slowly and sensuously. The pain and pleasure made the elder Holmes sob and fight to remain still.

"You're amazing, Myc, and you're mine forever. Do you hear me? Forever."

"Yes." Mycroft closed his eyes and let the tears flow freely now. _Forever._

Lestrade sank to his knees. He placed a tender kiss on one of Mycroft's spread thighs before wrapping his lips around his partner's bobbing cock head and applying a forceful, maddening suction. He stroked Mycroft's length with one hand and pressed a teasing finger against his entrance with the other. When he refrained from breaching the tight ring of muscle, Mycroft choked, "Greg, please, please."

At first he thought Lestrade didn't hear him. The sucking and teasing continued until he was ready to break down in frustration and use his fingers on himself. Then, without warning, Gregory scooped him up, carried him to the bed, and laid him on the mattress, positioning him so that his buttocks rested on the edge and his thighs draped over his kneeling lover's shoulders.

Mycroft was still trying to orient himself when a lubricated hand stole between his legs and two fingers buried themselves in his body up to the third knuckle. They moved inside him, fucking his slick channel with increasing speed and catching his prostate on each inward thrust. Mycroft clenched the sheets and arched his back, whimpering as his thighs gripped Gregory's head between them.

"You look gorgeous. I'm going to do this to you every day," Lestrade murmured hoarsely before adding a third lubricated finger. At the same time, he grasped Mycroft's erection and stroked it with equal force, robbing his partner of all coherent thought.

Mycroft Holmes, frequently described as the coolest and most dangerous man in Britain, surrendered to his lover, to this night, to the hands that were taking him apart. His hair was a mess, arousal flushed his cheeks, his cock leaked fluid all over Gregory's knuckles, and his tight hole clenched down on the digits that fucked all sense out of him.

Absorbed in passion and promise, Mycroft did not glance at his mobile, which blinked on the dresser. Anthea had repeatedly tried to reach him, in the end resorting to a single text:

_Sir, Moriarty escaped confinement during transport to C4 tonight. Believed he had assistance from one Sebastian Moran. Search is underway. Instructions? A._

Half an hour after that message was received, another had arrived.

_Game on, Big Brother. M._

He would see those messages later. At the moment Mycroft was only aware of the lilac and rose-scented night air, Gregory's warm lips and powerful body now descending on him, and the faint sound of Sherlock and John in the next room rediscovering their lust as well as love for each other.

As the man he loved slid gently into him, silencing his moans with loving kisses and pressing his naked and fevered skin deeper into the cool silk sheets, Mycroft Holmes hoped and prayed that life would always be this beautiful.

END.


End file.
